


Locked and Loaded: The Misadventures of a Retired Spy

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [17]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Captain John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson was a 00, M/M, MI6 Agents, No Season/Series 03-04, No underage, Older John, Post-Season/Series 02, Q is a Holmes, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Younger Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-05 17:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: John Watson had never expected to be dismissed from one service, let alone two in his lifetime. And yet, the truth was staring him in the face in stark black and white. And it didn’t seem that either dismissal was voluntary. Not again. This could not be happening again. It wasn’t fair, he deserved better than a simple “thank you for your service and efforts, good luck with your future endeavours” and a handshake. Which was, more or less, exactly what he was getting. The first time, it made perfect sense, he had been compromised and unfit for further active service. But he had little more to show for a decade and some of service in the Army than a couple of campaign medals, a few orders and honours likewise, and a scar on his left shoulder just a few centimetres shy of his heart. He had a fine pension, but it wasn’t good for much. His finances were bolstered by an additional income he received from the government as compensation for continuing service to Crown and Country through his work with Intelligence, thanks to the timely intervention of a mutual acquaintance who had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse when he was staring at a bleak future in a city that didn’t feel like home to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson without direction, without something to occupy his time and his mind, is not a happy man. What happens when he finds himself dismissed from the SIS is anyone's bet, but those higher on the ladder had better keep an eye on him.

* * *

* * *

John Watson had never expected to be dismissed from one service, let alone two in his lifetime. And yet, the truth was staring him in the face in stark black and white. And it didn’t seem that either dismissal was voluntary. Not again. This could _not_ be happening again. It wasn’t fair, he deserved better than a simple “thank you for your service and efforts, good luck with your future endeavours” and a handshake. Which was, more or less, exactly what he was getting. John sighed and pushed the file on his desk aside, putting his head in both hands. 

 

The first time, it made perfect sense, he had been compromised and unfit for further active service. But he had little more to show for a decade and some of service in the Army than a couple of campaign medals, a few orders and honours likewise, and a scar on his left shoulder just a few centimetres shy of his heart. He had a fine pension, but it wasn’t good for much. His finances were bolstered by an additional income he received from the government as compensation for continuing service to Crown and Country through his work with Intelligence, thanks to the timely intervention of a mutual acquaintance who had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse when he was staring at a bleak future in a city that didn’t feel like home to him.

 

This meant he had to go looking for another job, and quite possibly a new place to live. He really wasn’t looking forward to that. Now, maybe if he worked this right, he could keep his current place as a safe-house of sorts, it wasn’t the only one of its kind he had and he didn’t really feel up to surrendering it if his employers weren’t going to demand it back. John rubbed his eyes briskly, knowing it would help no one to cry, or dwell on this for too long. Instead, he decided to put his grief to use and pack up another chapter of his life. He didn’t have much, a lifetime of living in Army housing both domestic and overseas had taught him to keep few material belongings. And in service to Section Six, he kept less than that. He was rarely home long enough to have more than the basic necessities in either service, but that was no longer his option. Retrieving a couple of boxes kept on hand for just this sort of thing, John began packing up his small office in MI6 Headquarters.

 

After packing two boxes with his few articles, John picked up the file and read it, knowing exactly what it said. Once he’d read the file and put his name to the proper lines, he snapped it closed and just held onto it, looking at it with a sense of resignation. Nothing left to do now except go hand this file back to M and say his goodbyes. As he left his office, the two boxes sitting on the clean surface for the movers, he looked back just once. Right. Well, that was just it, then, wasn’t it? One of the lucky few who had outlived his own life expectancy both in the Army and in MI6, he was being offered retirement. Well, as awful as that was, to him at any rate, his pension from Section Six would more than make up for any deficit the Army had left him hanging on back in 2009. Closing the door behind him, he locked it and tucked the keys into the file, then tucked the file under one arm. Smoothing the front of his suit jacket, he set off for the Director’s office.

 

A few people he encountered on his way exchanged greetings with him, but he had the feeling his impending retirement and dismissal was no secret. So few agents lived long enough to retire that when one of them _did_ make that milestone, it was kind of a big deal. A quiet one, but still important. And John was one of only a few surviving Double-Ohs who _had_ lived long enough to retire from the Agency. 006 and 007 had both retired in the past two years, settled into some semblance of domestic bliss that worked for them, and now it was his turn. John was the last of a dying breed, the last of the Old Timers dying off or being phased out and replaced by younger, more able-bodied Agents more than willing to take over the mantles of their famous or infamous predecessors.

 

When he reached M’s office, he let himself in and spotted the Director’s secretary seated behind the curved reception desk, head bent to some task, an earpiece tucked subtly into one ear. John sighed and decided to get this over with. Approaching the desk, he knew the precise moment Eve Moneypenny registered his presence and identity and offered a small smile as she simply pointed at the closed door of the Director’s office.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Of course, 008.” She glanced up and made brief eye-contact as he went into the office beyond. “Good luck in the outside.”

“Yeah. Ta.” He huffed, shaking his head. Once inside the office, he made sure to close the door behind him.

“Mr Watson.” The Director greeted him formally.

“M.” He squared his shoulders as he looked at the man sitting on the other side of the desk. “I came to return this to you.”

“Thank you.” Gareth Mallory took the offered file and set it on his desk. “Good luck in the outside.”

“Thank you, sir.” John sighed.

“Have you thought any on what you’ll _do_ with your retirement?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Well, my door stands open if you ever need to ... talk about anything.”

“Of course.  Thank you, sir.” He said carefully. John maintained a calm he did not feel as he M got to his feet and held out one hand. Shaking hands with M, he looked around the office one last time. M walked him out, as was customary, and he paid a quick visit to Q-Branch before leaving MI6.

 

When he showed himself on the work floor, it wasn’t hard to spot the young Quartermaster. Q, of course, saw him coming and just smiled brightly.

“John!”

“Hello, Q.”

“Off to greater things, are you?”

“Oh, I wish.” He rolled his eyes. “You know, there’s a good fucking reason your brother pulled me in.”

“Oh, I know.” Q smirked, “But I’m sure you’ll find _something_ worthy of your time and talents in the outside world.”

“You have more faith in the system than I do, then.” He reached over and picked up a piece of equipment from the many items scattered along the worktable surface. One of Q’s new toys, a prototype perhaps.

“Be careful with that, please.”

“I make no promises.” He examined the item closely before carefully setting it down. “What _is_ it?”

“I have several, one each for my favourite former Double-Ohs.”

“Oh?”

“A bit of a, erm, retirement present, if you will.” Q just grinned at him, all unruly dark curls, dimples, and iridescent hazel eyes that shone behind practical, functional glasses with thick black frames that should have been gaudy but were quite stylish. At least, they were on the youthful man who ran the division once overseen by Geoffrey Boothroyd.

“So, what is it?”

“A pen. This is a Class 4 grenade.” Q said, taking the pen from where John had left it after his own initial inspection. “Three clicks arms the four-second fuse, another three disarms it.”

“How long did you say the fuse was?” John asked smugly as he took the pen and clicked it three times.

“Oh grow up, 008.” Q rolled his eyes as he took the pen back and disarmed it.

“They always said the pen was mightier than the sword,” John said cheerfully as he put his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks to me they were right!” Q retorted. “Now, would you like to see how this works?”

“I’d love to!”

“This way.” With a mischievous grin, Q led the way towards a mannequin standing on a frame, dressed in street clothes. “Our friend Buster will demonstrate.”

“This should be worth the price of admission.” He folded his arms across his chest and watched as Q tucked the pen into the mannequin’s pocket and clicked it three times, patting the dummy on the chest.

“Sorry, old chap.” He muttered before he cleared the area.

“Fire in the hole!” John shouted, right before the pen detonated, instinct kicking in as he grabbed Q and put himself between the Quartermaster and the blast. Q just giggled like a toddler in a toy-store. As the smoke cleared, John looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, Q, did you have to?” He looked at the poor mannequin, blown to bits from the waist up.

“Don't say it … ”

“The writing is on the wall.” He couldn’t help it, he _had_ to say it.

“Along with the rest of him!” Q looked very pleased with himself and John snickered.

“Well done, Q!” John patted Q on the shoulder, “But I thought Q-Branch didn’t go for that anymore?”

“I may come to regret trusting the likes of you and the other two with something like this, but I figure you’ll be smart with it.” Q just beamed at him and they returned to the work-table, where Q presented him with a box, inside which was his “retirement gift”. “Happy Retirement, 008. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I’ll try not to be, Q. Thank you.” He held the box tightly.

“And do feel free to pop by mine whenever you’re in the neighbourhood, the cats would love some company.”

“Oh, they just like me because I bring them catnip and cheese.”

“Which is more than I can say for others. My brothers regard them as a nuisance, fuzzy assassins, and Bond and Trevelyan call them little saboteurs.”

“Brothers?” He raised an eyebrow as Q walked with him. “Plural?”                           

“There’s three of us, I’m afraid.” Q’s expression twisted a bit. “You’ve never met Sherlock, have you?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“You’re lucky,” Q said, his tone exasperated. “Believe me, you would remember.” The expression on his face was a familiar one, that of a long-suffering sibling who had seen everything and more still and knew there was little to no end of chaos the other was capable of causing if left to their own devices.

“I take it he hasn’t followed the family business?”

“Not precisely.” Q shrugged as he held the door for John. The Quartermaster went beyond seeing him out of the division and walked with him to the car-park. There, he discovered that Q was hell-bent on spoiling him before he bid Section Six farewell.

“Stop, stop.” Q put a hand on his chest. “Close your eyes.”

“Okay? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Spoil what?”

“Oh, just close your eyes, 008.” Q rolled his eyes and folded his arms to wait until John did what he was told. “I’m not going to push you off a building or anything drastic like that. I like you too much.”

“Oh, _that’s_ comforting.” He snorted, “Fine. My eyes are closed. Now what?”

“Just follow me.” With that, Q was leading him … somewhere. It wasn’t long before he was stopped again.

“Okay, can I look now?”

“Yes, you can look now.” Q sounded excited and John carefully opened his eyes.

“Oh, Q, you did not.” John stopped when he saw a tarp-covered shape nearby. He had no idea what was under that tarp, but he had the feeling it was expensive, highly-modified, and fully customized to the agent it was intended for.

“I absolutely did. Besides, I know you’ll take better care of yours than Bond takes care of the Aston.”

“What, that DB5 you’ve rebuilt at _least_ twice for him?” John raised an eyebrow, knowing damn well which car was in question.

“Same one.”

“So, what’d you give me, then?”

“I don’t suppose you remember this lovely number?” Q pulled the tarp off with a flourish, beaming and so pleased with himself. James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5 was Q-Branch legend, but John had a special place in his heart for a particular BMW 4 Series 2.0 428i two-door coupe, painted an eye-catching shade of red with all standard bells and whistles and then a few special Q-Branch extras that made it one of the most high-tech cars on the roads. Most of those after-market upgrades were more recent, part of routine maintenance as well as post-mission repairs.

“Oh my god. Is this ... ?”

“Mhm.”

“Q, how did you ... ?” John trailed off, lost for words. “Christ, she’s perfect. Looks like new!”

“She _is_ like new, and she’s all yours.” Q tossed him a key-fob, that grin firmly in place. He wasted no time joining the Quartermaster when Q waved him over. He knew bloody well the car had undergone a complete overhaul and rebuild from wheelbase up in the very recent past. _Not_ his fault, for once, as hard as he was on his equipment and as much as Q complained about his uncanny ability to destroy just about anything they put in his hands. No one was dumb enough to steal Bond’s car, but apparently, John’s was fair game and it had ended up in several pieces of twisted wreckage after another one of the 00s had “borrowed” the car for a bit of a joyride last year. He had _not_ been very pleased when Timothy Bennett returned to base looking like he’d seen the losing end of a fight to the death short of actually _dying_ and cavalierly tossed John the key-fob to the BMW with a wink and a sly grin.

“Thanks for the wheels, Watson! She got a little roughed up, sorry about that!” The man had said cheerfully before disappearing to get seen to. John had quietly plotted Bennett’s demise for weeks before M shuffled the man off onto a dead-end mission a few months later and he was never seen alive again. No one had really mourned Bennett’s death, John certainly hadn’t.

“Think she’ll do, 008?” Q asked, drawing him back to the present.

“More than.” John came back to himself with a shake of his head and he looked at his gifted young Quartermaster. “Thank you, Q.”

“You remember the little toys from last time?”

“Yes, of course, I remember.” He said as he studied the car, circling it carefully as he touched the paint-job and chrome trim.

“Well, there’s an added bit of security to this girl.” Q was eager to show off the upgrades and John was eager to _see_ them. “See this?”

“Is that a biometric locking mechanism?” He studied the inlaid scan-strip on the door.

“The same technology that I used to lock your side-arm to your palm-print, accepts only your fingerprints. Reads and responds in seconds.”

“Q, you’re a marvel.” John carefully pressed his fingertips to the scanner. Sure enough, the locks popped less than three seconds later. He pulled the door open and ducked into the car for a quick peek before deciding to get in. John slid into the car, settling on the vented leather seat, and stroked the wheel and dash with reverent fingers. Everything looked just the way it had before Timothy Bennett had decided to “borrow” his car, and there were a few new goodies added. Q took him through every feature, what it did and how it worked, and told him to take care of it, but bring it back if it ever needed work done.

“You’re the only mechanic who could possibly know what to do with this car, Q. You and your lot,” John promised as he started the car, admiring the way it came to life so smoothly. “I’ll be back, don’t worry, you haven’t seen the last of me.”

“Didn’t think we had, 008. Good luck in the outside, do stay out of trouble?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.” He said with a grin.

“You never have, 008. You never have.” Q chuckled and stepped back with a tap to the roof, waving as he pulled out of his spot and got underway. It felt bittersweet to be leaving MI6, closing a chapter of his life that had done so much to shape the man he was today, the man he had become.

 

John returned home to his flat, paid for and kept up by MI6, and looked around. He felt kind of ... lost, but he suspected that was just normal for someone in his position. He remembered feeling the same way the first time he’d found himself in this position, back in 2009, and how much he had _hated_ it. John was distracted from getting too far stuck in his head by a soft pressure against his legs and he looked down to see that he had some company.

“Oh, there you are, sweetheart.” John tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite manage as he reached down to give the cat sitting by his feet a bit of affection. “Well, at least I’ve still got you, eh?” That got him an inquisitive meow and the calico cross that had kind of adopted him reared up on her back legs, resting her front paws on his thigh as she stretched up to study his face. That led to a lapful of concerned, affectionate cat. John chuckled and scratched her behind the ears as she put her paws up on his chest and rubbed against him, making soft, comforting noises in her throat. John wasn’t quite sure how old she was, guessed she was in her teens, but he knew she’d had a hard life before finding her way to into his. She was blind in one eye, whether from accident or ageing he wasn’t quite certain, and she had been a bit thin and scruffy, but five years of constant companionship, food, and a warm place to sleep had given her a pleasing bulk and her coat was smooth and silky. He just called her Kitty, not really good about naming animals. He had kept thinking she would move on eventually, but she just kept coming back and sticking around, finding her way into the flat through various means, and John had simply adapted.

“Well, wherever I end up, I’m not leaving you for the woods, love.” He promised later as they lay on his double bed. “Don’t know if I’ll stay here or move elsewhere, but I’ll make sure you come along.” That got an inquisitive purr and he smiled, rubbing her head with his fingertips.

 

Unfortunately, John didn’t take being without any sort of direction very well, he never had, and “wherever I end up” found him sitting in a smoky, crowded pub four days later, bleary-eyed and staring down the remains of his current libation. He didn’t look much like a government agent licensed to kill, but that was okay with him. He _wasn’t_ anymore, was he? Hadn’t been for almost a week now, and it was awful. He hated being like this, but there was nothing for it. He could look for work, yes, but what on _earth_ could someone like him do? What kind of standard nine-to-five employment could possibly keep him interested and occupied? Practising medicine didn’t hold any appeal at all, and he didn’t feel like hunting the private security sector for work. Wasn’t he better than paid muscle?

 

Frustrated and knowing he’d get into a brawl if he didn’t leave, John downed the contents of his glass and got up to visit the gents. Getting there didn’t bring any trouble, he did his business and left in peace, but as he made his way to the bar to close his tab for the night and then to the door to go home, the peace turned out to be short-lived. Some careless patron wasn’t quite paying attention and John was unceremoniously shoved sideways as he left the crowded bar. He staggered and bumped into someone else.

“Oi! Watch yourself, mate!” He snapped, struggling upright. Whoever he’d bumped into was much bigger than he was, and John gulped as the man rose a bit unsteadily from his stool and turned around.

“Say what, mate?” The giant snarled.

“Sorry, sir. I was, er, pushed off my feet.” John was drunk and frustrated, but not stupid, and blinked. The man he’d been shoved into narrowed beady eyes at him and closed one hand around John’s collar. Well, shit.

“Watch yerself, _mate_.” He growled, pulling John close until they were practically nose-to-nose. He was far more drunk than John, and he gagged a bit at the stench of beer and stale sweat, struggling.

“Hey! Hey, no fights!” The barman shouted, a minute too late as the giant pulled his free hand back to punch John. John managed to duck at the last minute and winced as another patron took the full force of the giant’s fist. It turned out to be the man who had initially knocked into him and started this, so there was some kind of twisted justice there. John got himself out of the giant’s grip with a bit of dirty play, this wasn’t the first brawl he’d been in and it wasn’t going be the last, but he didn’t get very far before a blow from behind took him down. He hit the floor with a grunt and flipped onto his back, his vision swimming a bit, and tried to ward off the oncoming attack. A different patron had come after him but didn’t get more than a handful of John’s shirt to drag him back to his feet before he was bodily hauled away from John by someone else. There was so much commotion, so many people shouting and beating the shit out of each other, but John took the opportunity to scram and bolted for the door. One foot out the door and he was grabbed by the back of the shirt and shoved onto the pavement a split-second before someone was kneeling on his shoulders.

“Oh, no you don’t!” A voice growled as John was put in handcuffs. Of _course_ the cops had been called, and of _course_ he was getting arrested. Of course he was. He groaned and stayed absolutely still. Once the man holding him down was sure he was properly restrained, the weight on his back disappeared.

“Alright, you, get up. You’re coming with me.” With very little ceremony, he was dragged to his feet and hustled away from the swarming pub.

 

When he found himself in the back of a car after having his rights read to him, he didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief. But when minutes passed and no one else was put into the car next to him, he began to wonder. The man who had arrested him stood just outside the car, leaning against it as he made a phone call to someone. The window was open just a bit and John could hear every word.

“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, I’m alright. Listen, I just wanted to call and let you know ... ” he paused and looked over his shoulder at something John couldn’t see from here. “No, no, I’m fine. Yes, I promise. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be home late tonight, so ... don’t wait up for me. No, I know I promised, I’m so sorry, love, but I have a couple of drunks to book in and reports to file before I get to come home. I know I have better things to do, but try telling my bosses that. And no, that was _not_ an invitation to do just that, so don’t even ... oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t ... oh, there he goes again. Great.” With a frustrated sound, the man hung up on whoever he’d been talking to, or rather just hung up. Whoever he’d been talking to had clearly hung up first. John sighed and leaned against the cool glass of the window, glad he’d at least gotten out of MI6 before doing something stupid like getting into a bar-brawl and getting arrested.

 

It was quiet as the man who’d arrested him initially got into the car and made a call over the radio before getting underway and John nearly fell asleep on the drive over. Nearly, but not quite. Familiar enough with the booking process, John gave them no trouble, which he couldn’t say was true for the rest of the lot they had pulled in from the brawl and found himself sitting in a crowded holding cell with twelve other men. None of them was the giant who’d tried to beat the sense out of him, thankfully, and no one really bothered him. Finding some empty floor space, he tried to get some sleep. There was no telling how long he would be stuck here, so might as well make the best of a really shitty situation.

* * *

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's gotten himself into a bit of trouble, but there's always one person who will be willing to get him out again and offer him an alternative, something to give him direction and keep him busy.

* * *

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office in MI6 Headquarters in Whitehall, studying recent CCTV footage with unusual intensity. He had been scouring the footage prior to the phone call he’d just received from his husband, which he did feel a bit bad about hanging up on Gregory as he had but he had something else to handle just momentarily. Gregory had, of course, apologized for the fact that he would be late coming home due to processing and paperwork for a call he’d taken. Someone had called in a disturbance and his husband had been among several officers dispatched to handle the situation, that had led to the arrest of several unruly inebriated patrons of a pub where a brawl had broken out. Mycroft knew, as Gregory knew, that his husband had far better things to be doing with his time than marshalling bar-brawls on a Tuesday night, but sometimes there just wasn’t anything he could do except take the call. Now, Mycroft was going over footage of the pub from earlier in the evening, going frame-by-frame. One of the patrons got his attention and he paused the footage, going a few frames back to see when he first came into camera-range, and then forward looking for a good angle.

“Please not him. Please, God, not him.” Mycroft whispered under his breath. He was already running facial-rec, and it took less than five minutes for the system to get a hit on the patron in question. Unfortunately, the system came up with a perfect twenty-point match and Mycroft groaned. No rest for the weary tonight was there? Rubbing the bridge of his nose, and feeling the start of a headache that would sadly have nothing on the misery John Watson would be suffering, Mycroft let out a slow breath.

 

He had known John Watson for years, far more than he cared to count, and knew what happened when the man had no direction, nothing to occupy his time or his mind. He had seen similar behaviour from the veteran in 2009 when he had been discharged from the Army after quite a long career and had rather foolishly hoped that John wouldn’t repeat himself after his dismissal from MI6. No, dismissal was entirely the wrong word to use here. He had not been dismissed, he had been retired. One of a handful of senior agents who had outlived his own expectancy and therefore had the chance to retire in peace. But there were always a few in the batch who could never quite settle down quietly, and John Watson was certainly one of them.

 

John and his fellow Double-Ohs James Bond and Alec Trevelyan had always been the renegades of the lot, causing far more headaches and grief than they were worth and yet always getting the job done. John had come late to the agency, but he had been one of their best once he had a chance to prove himself. And Bond and Trevelyan had wasted no time bringing the clever, resourceful veteran into their fold. Olivia Mansfield had quite often bemoaned the cavalier, almost careless way the threesome operated, but she was always the first to vouch for them.

“Well, that’s just it, then, isn’t it?” Mycroft shook his head and looked at the image frozen on his screen, unable to help a smile. “I suppose I shall have to once again get him out of difficulties.” He would give John a few hours to cool his head before springing him from Holding, and wondered for a moment if his husband had even recognized John. The two had met once, years ago, but he wasn’t certain if either had recognized the other tonight. Not likely, judging by the footage.

...-...

John drifted between wakefulness and sleep for what felt like hours and had no idea what time it was when he heard someone shouting for him.

“Watson!” He groaned and rolled, covering his head with both arms. “Hey, Watson! Get up, your bail’s been posted! You’re getting out of here!” That got his attention and he struggled to sit up.

“W-what?”

“I said, you’re getting out of here. Bail’s been posted. Come on.” The bailiff unlocked the door as John got unsteadily to his feet. He was far less drunk than he had been when they’d put him in here, but not quite stable on his feet yet. John made his careful way to the door and stepped out. As a matter of policy, they put him in handcuffs before they led him away from the cell. The walk to Processing was quiet, but John didn’t mind that. He just wondered who had found out about this and decided to take pity on him and bail him out of Holding.

 

His personal effects had been taken as part of the booking-in process, these were duly returned upon sign-out. He checked everything against the log-sheet and marked it when everything was returned. He had his watch, phone, wallet, coat, and his side-arm. The Browning L1A9 he had carried in the Army had been returned with the rest of his kit upon discharge and retirement from that service, but the Glock 17 L131A1 he had used for almost six years with MI6 was still in his possession. It was properly licensed and registered, so there was no reason he wouldn’t get it back. He did not load the clip, tucking it into his coat pocket, but the pistol went back into its conceal-carry holster which was then returned to its standard place tucked into the back waistband of his trousers.

 

Once everything was where it belonged, John signed the log-sheet and turned away from the desk. It was quiet as he left the processing-area and as he stepped out onto the street after passing through an even quieter but not quite empty central reception, he looked around for any late-going taxis. He had no idea how he would get home, his watch read just past 10.00. Doing some quick math, he realized that he hadn’t been in Holding even two hours.

“That was fast.” He sighed, shrugging into his coat and wincing as his shoulder objected a bit. His sense of awareness tingled and he looked to his right without moving his head too much. A black car sat by the kerb, innocuous but intimidating. John knew a government vehicle when he saw one and rolled his eyes. The driver appeared and opened the back door in the time it took him to register the car and its purpose, and he sighed as a familiar figure emerged from the back seat of the car.

“Can I offer you a ride somewhere, 008?”

“Hello, H.” John faced Mycroft Holmes, “What are you doing down here?”

“Looking after my agents. I understand you had a bit of … difficulty earlier this evening?”

“Yeah, that’s a nice word for it!” He snorted, “So, what? I _know_ you have better things to do than babysit and bail out a retired Double-Oh on a Tuesday night.”

“Well, my husband isn’t due home anytime soon due to outstanding circumstances, and my brothers are more or less behaving themselves. For once.” Mycroft twirled that ever-present brolly of his, looking down for a moment before making eye-contact. “So, no, I really do not have better things to do.”

“Throw in dinner and you have my attention.”

“Your undivided attention?”

“That’s going to require dessert.” He grinned, “I would say a bottle of wine, but I think I’ve done enough drinking for a while.”

“Mm, yes, I imagine you might have. I apologize for not checking on you sooner, John, I know you don’t take this sort of business very well.”

“You don’t have the time or resources to look after me all the time, Mycroft, I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” That got him a sly smile, “Get in the car, I owe you dinner.”

“After you, Mr Holmes.” He rolled his eyes and got into the black car. As they got underway once Mycroft had given the driver instructions, John relaxed a bit. the leather seats were vented and it was very nice to be in one of Mycroft’s cars after his evening. He felt bad for his current state of being, but there was nothing for it.

 

“John?”

“Hmm?” He cracked an eye open at the sound of his name and realized they had stopped and Mycroft was standing outside the car. “Jesus, did I fall asleep?”

“Mm. Come along, you need to eat something.”

“Yeah, sure. Coming.” He got out of the car, taking Mycroft’s offered hand, and looked around to see where they were. One of Mycroft’s regular haunts, way out of his price range and definitely out of his dress-code. He blinked at the façade, the glowing windows that promised hot food, good company, and, when he was in the mood for it, better wine.

“Are they going to let me through the _door_ tonight?” He asked as he followed Mycroft.

“Of course they will. This is far from the first time you’ve come here dressed as you are tonight, and the staff know you by name.”

“Yeah, I guess they do, don’t they?” He smiled as an employee appeared to hold the door for them.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes! Good evening, Captain Watson!”

“Good evening, Stefan.” Mycroft returned the man’s greeting, “Busy night?”

“Oh, not terribly, sir! After you, Mr Holmes!”

“Thank you, Stefan.” Mycroft just nodded and handed his coat and brolly off to the cute young hostess who materialized from somewhere else as they reached the hostess-station. John followed suit, giving the girl a friendly smile as she took his coat for him.

“Your usual table, Mr Holmes?” The maître d’ asked cheerfully, not at all surprised to see them.

“Yes, please, Victoria.”

“Nicole will take you to your table, sirs.” The maître d’ indicated the young woman who had taken their coats for them.

“This way, please, Mr Holmes!”She said brightly, collecting two menus before leading them into the dining-room. She kept up polite chit-chat as they were seen to their reserved table, extra place-settings were removed once they were seated and John did not miss how they both sat backs to the wall once seated. Their server appeared moments later, as was standard for this place. He was young, just out of university or … no, still working his way through, clean-cut and professional, but John saw a peek of ink on his forearms.

“Hello! My name is Bryan, and I’ll be your server tonight!”He introduced himself according to standard, making eye-contact with both John and Mycroft. “Can I get you anything to drink, gentlemen?”

“A glass of the 2011 Meo-Camuzet Corton-Charlemagne, please.” Mycroft rattled off something from the wine-list that John knew cost nearly two-hundred quid for a bottle. Not a glass, a bottle. Jesus.

“And you, sir?” The server turned to John next.

“Just water with lemon for me, please.”

“Still, or sparkling, sir?”

“Er, sparkling, please. And a cup of chamomile tea, as well.”

“Of course, sir! I’ll bring out a pot for you, then.” His order was recorded and their server glanced at Mycroft. “The Corton-Charlemagne is by the bottle, sir, is that alright?”

“That’s fine.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes.” Another notation was made and Bryan gave them a smile. “I’ll get your drinks in! Shall I bring bread for the table?”

“Thank you, Bryan.” Mycroft dismissed their server and it was quiet between them. But John didn’t feel like talking just at the moment and he knew Mycroft wouldn’t push. What had started out as a rather depressing evening had turned out pretty alright. He could have done without being arrested, but that was all his fault for getting into a brawl in the first place. Although to be fair, he hadn’t done anything except bump into someone else on accident because another patron hadn’t been paying attention.

 

Bryan returned a few minutes later with their drinks and bread, and they ordered for their meal when asked if they were ready. John decided on a baked heritage beetroot & whipped goats cheese salad with chicory and roasted almond pesto for a starter and roasted stone bass with pomme mousseline, foraged sea herbs, and Champagne beurre blanc with a side of roasted Heritage carrots, almonds & coriander for his entrée, while Mycroft elected for the celeriac velouté with trompette mushroom and black truffle for _his_ starter and Côte de veau with shimeji mushroom persillade and veal jus with a side of tenderstem broccoli with fresh chilli and crispy shallots.

“Alright, gents, I’ll get this started and be back to see how it’s going in a bit!” Bryan said cheerfully after double-checking their orders. “Do you need anything else right now?”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft gave a polite smile and dismissed their server again. Bryan just smiled and was gone with a nod. John took a sip of his tea after pouring a cup and fixing it the way he liked, and Mycroft picked up his wine-glass as they looked around the crowded dining room.

Despite the hour, the place was plenty busy and John noted every table and the people at each one, the exits, the location of every server on the floor, the kitchen and the loos. He was running an ongoing threat-assessment of every single person in the dining-room, and he knew Mycroft was doing the same thing. It was a long-learned habit that had kept them both alive in more than one instance. He had to smile a bit.

“You’re smiling.”

“Mm, just thinking.” He met Mycroft’s gaze over the rim of his teacup. They both sat backs to the wall but facing each other, covering different angles of the dining room from the same table.

“Oh?”

“Old habits die hard.” He indicated how they sat in relation to the rest of the bustling, crowded dining room beyond them. They were by no means isolated, and yet there was no one else seated directly around them. And there wouldn’t be for the extent of their visit. Mycroft looked around and then looked at John. He didn’t say anything, he just raised an eyebrow as if to say “Well? Am I wrong?” They both knew he wasn’t, and Mycroft hid a smile in his wine-glass. That turned into a chuckle and it wasn’t long before they were both laughing. Not more than a chuckle, but they couldn’t help it.

“Oh, John.” Mycroft set his glass down carefully. “I had something to discuss with you.”

“Hmm?”

“Have you thought at all of what you’ll do with your time now?”

“What? Besides drink myself stupid in crowded bars on weeknights and get into fist-fights with people twice my size but not my ability?”

“John.” The scolding look was worth it.

“What?”

“I am being serious.”

“So am I.” He shrugged and looked up as he caught sight of their server coming back with their starters. Once he was gone again, John looked across at Mycroft.

“You _know_ I don’t take it well if I don’t have a job or something to keep me occupied, Mycroft.”

“Yes, I do know. Which is why I think you might be interested in my next proposition.”

“I’m all ears if you think you have something worth my time.” He took a bite of his starter, which was delicious.

“I think it might just interest you enough to keep you out of trouble.”

“Alright, then.” He took a sip of water, “What’ve you got for me?”

“Have you considered revisiting Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital in search of work?”

“St. Bart’s? You’re fucking kidding me, right?” But Mycroft’s expression said otherwise. No, he was really quite serious. John snorted. “I’m not about to spend the rest of my life teaching a bunch of snot-nosed ungrateful med-school grads who can’t keep their patients alive long enough to figure out what's wrong with them!”

“You should go visit, see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same since you were a student there yourself,” Mycroft said calmly, studying John over the rim of his wine-glass. “Just go talk to them, I’m sure Doctor Stamford would love to hear from you, even just for a catch-up over coffee.”

“If I felt like giving someone a heart attack? Maybe!” John set his fork down to take a sip of his tea.  Mycroft just gave him a look that usually meant some sort of trouble. Not for him, specifically, but for someone else. He returned the look with a level, slightly disinterested one of his own. They were used to playing this game, it had just … been a while.

“Well, at least consider my suggestions.”

“I am _not_ interested in teaching.”

“Ah, but we both know that there are far more opportunities available at Saint Bart’s to those who are … shall we say, sufficiently motivated?”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps, if you asked, Doctor Stamford would introduce you to their lead pathologist. Charming, gifted young woman, came over from the Medical Examiner’s Office several years ago, quite good at her job.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Mycroft, I’d think you were trying to set me up on a date with a stranger.”

“Why on earth would I do something like that?”

“Because you’re an insufferable busybody who can’t be bothered to keep your nose out of other people’s private business.” John just raised an eyebrow at the other man.

“Oh, come now, John. Am I really so bad?” That got him a sly smile and John snickered.

“You _can_ be! I don’t need anyone interfering in my romantic life, thank you.”

“You can be such a spoil-sport sometimes.”

“And you have too much time on your hands.” He said drolly, “Go start a war or something if you’re really that bored.”

“Ah, but you know how that interferes with traffic.”

“Hm.” John rolled his eyes. Dinner was enjoyable, he cleared his plate entirely and Mycroft made good on his promise of dessert in exchange for John’s undivided if unwilling attention.

 

After paying the bill, which John was not allowed to see, Mycroft took him home and made him promise to at least _think_ about visiting Saint Bart’s.

“If I promise, will that satisfy you?”

“It will have to suffice,” Mycroft said as he gave Kitty a bit of a fuss. “Will you look for housing elsewhere? I realize I never asked after your housing situation.”

“I’ll probably look for something else, but I’d like to keep this place if I can. I won’t _live_ here full-time, of course, but … well, having a safe-house is always nice.” He looked around the small place he had lived in for so long but had never quite felt like home.

“Have you thought of seeking rooms with someone else to reduce your cost of living?”

“Around London? Who the hell would want someone like _me_ for a flat-mate, Mycroft? And where would I live? The only reason I live _here_ is because someone else is footing the bill! I couldn’t begin to afford London on my own the way the market is right now!”

“Well, just … consider it. You never know, you might just find one person willing to live with a retired operative like yourself.”

“God bless them, whoever they are. I wouldn’t want to live with me, and I _do_ live by myself. I’m a terrible person, my habits are unspeakable, and forget being acceptable nice to people if I don’t feel up to behaving myself.”

“And yet you can charm your way into any situation, quite easily.”

“But not out of one?”

“Oh, I didn’t say _that_.” Mycroft smiled as he lifted Kitty to his shoulder and let her get settled there.

“You spoil my cat, you know that right?”

“Someone has to.” Said as Mycroft got some affection from Kitty, who rubbed against his cheek and made soft, happy noises. “Not that she’s at all neglected of course.”

“Wouldn’t know that from the way she goes after you, would you?” John rolled his eyes. Mycroft stayed long enough for a night-cap before taking his leave, John saw him to the street.

“Oh, and John?” Mycroft stopped short of getting into the car.

“Yes, Mycroft?”

“Happy birthday.”

“My birthday isn’t until Thursday, Mycroft.” He frowned, he was fairly sure his birthday was in three days, that he hadn’t misjudged the calendar _that_ badly.

“Oh, I know, I know.” Mycroft just smiled, “But I’d like to wish you a happy birthday in advance on the outside chance I don’t have the opportunity to do so on Thursday. So, happy birthday.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks?”

“Good night, 008.”

“Good night, H.” He watched Mycroft get into the car and waited until the car was out of sight before going back inside and back upstairs to his. That had probably been the strangest way someone had ever wished him a happy birthday. But at least Mycroft had thought to _wish_ him a happy birthday at all, had remembered. It showed that, in his own rather odd way, he really did care about John. It was nice to have a friend like Mycroft Holmes, even if he wasn’t always the best sort of friend to have. Locking up for the night, John shut down the flat and went through his nightly ablutions before climbing into bed. Christ knew he needed sleep if he could get any.

* * *

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mike Stamford in a bar. No brawls this time. Next stop: Saint Bart's Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit more the way of classic ACD canon here, I borrowed a lot of the dialogue between John and Mike from the original "Study in Scarlet".

* * *

* * *

Two days later, John found himself sitting in The Criterion Bar at 4 pm, one of a small group of regulars minding their own business and contemplating their futures, whatever those happened to be. He hadn’t been approached by anyone except the bartender, so when a glass was set at his place, he was a little surprised.

“What is _this_?” He looked up at the bartender, who just gestured over John’s shoulder. He looked back, scouring the small crowd for anyone who might have thought it was a good idea to buy him a drink. There, at a corner table near the door, was a gentleman in a two-piece suit. Nothing fancy, rather simple, it was clearly not new but it was clean if not slightly rumpled with a white button-down and a rather gaudy tie. He had the air of the academic to him. He was rather heavyset with thinning, short brown hair cut high and short, and green eyes partially concealed behind a pair of thick glasses. Someone he knew? He didn’t look familiar right away, but that didn’t mean much. John shrugged and turned back to the bartender, who nodded. John sighed and finished his current drink before picking up the one a potential stranger had bought for him. For a minute, he studied it, but there weren’t any people who would want to do him harm _in_ London at the moment. Taking a sip, John raised an eyebrow. Well, that was interesting.

“Kamikaze.” He said, mostly to himself. “Christ, haven’t had one of these in years.”

“The bloke at the corner table by the door got it.”

“Guess I’d better go thank him and get a name, then.” John got carefully to his feet, not because he was inebriated but just because he didn’t want to bump into anyone, and closed his tab before he picked up the drink and set off. When he got to the table, he set the glass down and studied the man seated there.

“Most people don’t buy strangers a drink, you know.”

“Well, we’re not strangers.”

“Mm, didn’t think we were.” John smiled, “So?”

“Stamford.” The man stood up, held out one hand, “We went to Bart’s together ages ago.”

“Stamford?” John tilted his head as they shook hands. “Mike Stamford?”

“Same one and only!”

“Well, it’s … uh, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, I know, I got fat.” Stamford beamed at him. “Take a seat, Watson.”

“Holy hell, you’re still in London?” John chuckled as he sat down across from his old school-mate. He remembered a much younger, less-portly Mike Stamford at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, they had gone to medical school together for years before John decided the Army was more his liking.

“Yeah. Teaching at Bart’s now. Bright young things, like we used to be.” Stamford’s eyes crinkled behind his glasses, “God, I hate them.” John snorted. He could say a few things about “bright young things”, and most of them weren’t very nice.

“So, what about you, then? Still in London, are you?”

“Yeah, for whatever a couple of pensions can get me these days.” He shrugged and took a sip of his drink.

“Thought I heard you were somewhere getting shot at?”

“Yeah, I was.” John made a face. “Six years ago.”

“What are you up to now, then?”

“Looking for work. Again.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” He narrowed his eyes, “Don’t even think about asking.”

“Asking what?” Stamford just looked at him, eyes wide and innocent.

“I’m _not_ interested in teaching at Saint Bart’s. I’ve seen way too much to be content teaching ungrateful little snots how to _not_ kill people when that’s all I’ve done with my life.”

“Mm, wouldn’t do to have someone offing the poncy brats, I guess. Shame, though, I know a few who could use a good scare.”

“Send ‘em to boot if that’s what you think will do the trick.” John said around a sip of his drink, “I won’t just scare ‘em, Mike, I’m just as likely to kill one of them for being a mouthy fucker.”

“Really, all you’d have to do is give ‘em that look and they’d behave, I think,” Stamford said with a chuckle.

“Which “look”?”

“You know, the one you gave the rest of us when we were being morons? I _know_ you scared more than a couple of soldiers into shape with it.” Stamford’s grin was mischievous. “Always called it The Watson Look, knew we’d done real wrong if you turned it on one of us.”

“The look that got me tagged with the nickname Mother Watson when we were in med school?” John knew exactly what Stamford was talking about and chuckled a bit.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Afraid that’s not as effective these days as it used to be.” He shrugged. “But to answer your question, I _am_ looking for work but I don’t know what London has to offer that could _possibly_ suit someone with my history.”

“Well, what are you good at? I get the feeling practising medicine doesn’t quite appeal if the idea of teaching makes you regret some of your life choices.”

“What am I _good_ at?” John snorted. “Mike, what I’m _good_ at leaves my field of opportunities prohibitively narrow.”

“Such as?”

“Private or hired security or law enforcement. _Maybe_ I’d take work as a Certified Paramedic or ambulance driver, that would be easy to get with my medical background.” And Mycroft would be more than happy to write him any letters of recommendation necessary to help him secure such a position if that’s what he wanted to do with his life.

“Did I ever ask what it is you’ve been doing with yourself since 2009?”

“Oh, I could tell you, but it’s … classified.” John smirked.

“Classified?”

“I might have to kill you if I told you exactly what I’ve done since the Army bade me farewell.”

“Jesus, Watson!”

“You asked.” He finished his drink and set the empty glass down.

“Well, in the interest of keeping my head where it belongs, I’ll stay out of that business.” Stamford looked a bit flabbergasted. “I … uh, don’t suppose you’d be interested in something low-key and boring like research, would you?” Ah, _there_ it was. John had been waiting for those questions to come up.

“What kind of research?”

“Nothing terribly exciting, maybe a bit too boring for your taste. Just assist on masters’ level coursework and mentor the thesis students who can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Not nearly smart enough for that, I’m afraid.”

“You’re not terribly squeamish, are you?”

“I hope I’m not. Why?”

“I should introduce you to the lead pathologist, she might be able to point you in the direction of something to keep you occupied.”

“Such as?”

“Processing incoming bodies, assisting on autopsies, making proper arrangements post-procedure and such, helping keep her workload from getting too mad.”

“Oh, is _that_ all?” He chuckled and twirled the stemmed glass between his fingers, “Mike, you’re not trying to set me up on a _date_ with this woman, are you?”

“Oh, God, no! No, Jesus! Believe me, I know how you swing, John.” Stamford shook his head quickly. “Nah, Doctor Hooper’s not your type. She’d be a _very_ good friend, though, and Christ knows you could always use a few more of those.”

“And having a friend at the morgue, someone good with dead bodies, might be just the sort of useful friend I need,” John said lightly.

“Maybe.” Mike’s expression twisted a bit, but his eyes were still quite bright. “Oh, and what about housing? Have you thought about that at all?”

“What about it?”

“Where are you living these days?”

“Small place over in Maida Vale, the Agency keeps it up for me.”

“Ever think of moving to a bigger place? I’m guessing this isn’t a real big place you’re in?”

“Where would I live, Mike?” He huffed. “I couldn’t afford to stay in London more than a few months if I moved out of Agency housing.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah, I’m not the John Watson ... ” He trailed off sharply. That wasn’t fair to Mike.

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!”

“I dunno – get a flat-share or something?”

“Come on – who’d want me for a flatmate?” Mike made a noise, clearly amused by something. John just gave him a level look. “What?”

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?”

“A young fellow up at the hospital. He was complaining again this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in the rooms he keeps.”

“Well, if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”  Stamford looked rather strangely at John over his pint-glass.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” He knew _that_ look, ta.

“I just know how you are with … certain sorts of people.”

“Why, what is there against him?”

“Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know, he is a decent fellow.”

“A medical student?”

“No — I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors. He is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” John had to roll his eyes. If that wasn’t Mycroft Holmes to a fucking T. Or hell, even Q. But, to be fair to the Quartermaster, he was far more open than his elder brother.

“You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet,” Mike said with an expression John had seen before on Q and Mycroft’s faces as recently as this same week; “perhaps you would not care for him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” John was careful to keep his tone neutral, any blatant interest well-concealed. “How could I meet him?”

“Are you certain you want to? Most people can’t stand him for more than a few minutes.”

“I’m not _that_ much of a hermit, Mike.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes, I would like to. I should like to meet him.” John said around a sip of water.

“If you like, we can go up there together. He should be in the lab right now.” Stamford said finally. “He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning to night.”

“If I could get away with avoiding a place for weeks.”

“He also assists Doctor Hooper, so if he’s _not_ in the labs, we’ll most likely find him in the morgue.”

“That’s fine, Mike. Shall we, then?” John got up and collected his coat, Stamford followed suit.

“After you.” Leaving The Criterion, he hailed a passing cab and held the door for Stamford, who gave the address at Bart’s to the driver as they got underway. As they drove to Saint Bart’s, conversation moved from the mysterious Sherlock, of whom John had heard a bit but had not had a chance to meet. He was actually looking forward to it, he wanted to see for himself what sort of fellow the brother of Mycroft and Q might be. Someone interesting, he suspected, if he was a Holmes.

 

But, as they neared their destination, Stamford gave him a few more particulars about the young man.

“You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him, I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him in the labs.” he said; “You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”

“If we don't get on it will be easy to part company. It seems to me that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter.” John said quietly, “Is this bloke's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be modest about it.”

“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes — it approaches cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of a vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness.”

“I’ve heard and seen far stranger.” John shrugged, not quite bothered by that revelation. He knew a thing or two about the subtly and art of poisons.

“And he does have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess.” Stamford screwed up his face a bit. “When it comes to beating the subjects in the morgue, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”

“Beating the subjects!” Again, not the strangest thing he’d heard of. “With _what_? And why?”

“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes. Uses a riding crop for it, I think.”

“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”

“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are.” An eye-roll, a huff. The taxi began to slow and Stamford looked out the window. “But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.”

“Lead on.” John let Stamford out first when they had stopped and paid the driver before heading after his old school-mate, who really wasn’t all that different from their younger days. Just a bit older and a bit thicker around the middle. They hadn’t been best friends in school, but John was very happy to see him again, especially after the conversations he’d had with Mycroft two days ago. Time to put eyes on Sherlock Holmes if they could find the man, and judge his character once and for all.

* * *

* * *

 


	4. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson finally meets Sherlock Holmes, and it's the beginning of something beautiful. If Sherlock can just behave himself for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit more the way of classic ACD canon here, and the way John and Sherlock meet is a bit different. Quite a bit different.  
> ::  
> Part 1 of 2

* * *

* * *

John wasn’t actually sure what he had expected out of someone like Sherlock Holmes, knowing what he did about the man’s two brothers, but when they couldn’t find him in the chem labs and ended up heading for the basement of the hospital where the Morgue was, he suspected he was in for something a bit out of the ordinary. That was fine, considering most of his life had been spent doing extraordinary things. A little normalcy and a slower pace would not be amiss, but John knew better to think that he was at all suited to a “normal” life, that standard civilian lifestyle would appeal to him at all. He did not like being bored.

“I’ll introduce you to Doctor Hooper first, she’ll be in her office right now,” Mike said in the lift.

“Are you _sure_ about that?” John folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back wall of the lift. “You said that Holmes would be in the chem labs and you were wrong about that.”

“It’s easier to find Doctor Hooper, and wherever she is, I guarantee you Holmes isn’t far away.” Mike looked at him, but John knew he wore a neutral expression. Not uninterested but not annoyed either. Just … neutral. He was good at that.

“Hm. I have better things to do with my time than search the warrens of the hospital’s underbelly looking for someone.” He really didn’t, but Mike didn’t have to know that. This was the most exciting thing he’d done since that brawl two nights ago.

“Just trust me, John. You’ll understand when you meet him.”

“We’ll see about that.” John was going to reserve his judgment until he actually got to meet Sherlock Holmes.

 

When they reached the Morgue, they located an empty office, but it wasn’t hard to find Doctor Hooper. She was in the intake area, they found her by following the sound of her voice.

“Sherlock, for the last time! Put your phone away!”

“It’s only my brother, Doctor Hooper, nothing important.”

“I don’t care if it’s the Queen! Put your bloody phone away, you’re at work! You know the rules!”

“Yes, yes, I know. Unless Inspector Lestrade calls with a case, I’m not allowed to touch my phone.”

“Well, we found Doctor Hooper.” John murmured as they stood behind the double-doors separating them from the Chief Pathologist and her assistant.

“And Sherlock, too.”

“Well, he’s a Holmes alright,” John said, catching sight of a tall, almost gangly young man inside the room just beyond them, with riotous curly hair and, well, he wasn’t sure what colour his eyes were, he couldn’t tell from here. But even without being in the same room, he knew that this one was definitely a Holmes. And considering how much like Q he looked, this _had_ to be Sherlock Holmes. If John hadn’t known any better, he would have thought for sure it was his Quartermaster. But Q wasn’t quite so … rude? Sassy, blunt, but not quite rude.

“I’ll be damned. There _are_ three of them.” He breathed, shaking his head.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He looked at Stamford and grinned. “Well, shall we interrupt?”

“I don’t think Doctor Hooper is going to mind.” Stamford pushed the door open, “After you?”

“Ta.” John stepped into the sterile white room lined with rows and rows of shelves and wheeled gurneys covered in white sheets. Some were occupied, some weren’t. It was a familiar sight for John, he wasn’t uncomfortable being around so many dead bodies. Death was kind of an integral part of his work, after all. He stood quietly by as Hooper and Holmes bickered, hands behind his back and feet shoulder-width apart.

 

When the row ended with Holmes turning his back on Doctor Hooper and storming out, John simply stepped out of the way and watched him go.

“A bit different from my day.” He murmured as the door clanged shut.

“Oh!” Hooper gave a start, he wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the noise of the door or because he spoke up. She turned sharply and when she saw John and Stamford, she kind of deflated.

“Oh, god. Mike!”

“Is this a bad time, Molly?”

“Christ, no!” Hooper shook her head, tucking her hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for someone like Sherlock Holmes.” John said, “You shouldn’t let him treat you that way.”

“Who are you?”

“Molly Hooper, this is John Watson.” Stamford made the introductions, “He and I were at Bart’s together ages ago.”

“Oh! Nice to meet you, Mister Watson.”

“Actually, it’s, um, Doctor.” He shook hands with Hooper, “Doctor Watson, please.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“You didn’t know.” John smiled, “So, what’s _his_ problem?”

“If you’re talking about Sherlock Holmes, the world is his problem.” Hooper rolled her eyes, “He’s too good at what he does or I wouldn’t keep him around.” John chuckled and studied her carefully.

 

Hooper was young, not quite as young as Holmes, and pretty but not quite beautiful with long brown hair kept out of her face in practical hairstyles and wide, expressive brown eyes. She was small, built like a dancer with a slender build, a bit clumsy in her movements and shy but she certainly knew her business and knew how to get results from people under her. John found her endearing and wondered what kind of opportunities he might have to befriend the young pathologist. He had no interest in pursuing more than friendship, of course, and would never give her the impression that he did. He knew better.

“So, I doubt you went to all the trouble of coming down here just to see _me_ ,” Hooper said as she approached one of the covered, occupied gurneys.

“Actually, we did.” Stamford looked a little uncomfortable as she pulled the sheet down and reached for the closures of the body-bag beneath. “See, Doctor Watson is looking for work to do and I thought I had better introduce him to you before sending him anywhere else.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know what kind of work you’re _interested_ in, Doctor Watson, but I suppose you have better things to do with your time than stare at dead bodies all day.”

“Well, since neither teaching or clinical practice really hold any appeal to me.” He shrugged. Before anything else could be said of the matter, they were interrupted by the arrival of someone John was familiar with and he stiffened.

“Molly!” The harried-looking police-officer was leading a small team pushing a gurney. They were from the Coroner’s Office, and that was a new dead body to add to Doctor Hooper’s already-full roster. John recognized the silver-haired man he had met briefly the other night.

“Hi, Greg. Got another one for me?”

“So sorry about that, love, looks like you’ve already got your hands full today.” Meaning the rows of gurneys along the walls. “By the way, where’s Sherlock?”

“That one stormed out of here ten minutes ago without so much as a by your leave, could be anywhere in the building or in London,” John said carefully.

“Typical.” An eye-roll said a lot about what Lestrade thought about that. “Well, I guess I’ll catch him later.”

“He’ll find you first.” Hooper just motioned to the coroner’s team to add the newcomer to the row of gurneys.

“Probably will, knowing him.”

“Let me just find the … ” Hooper turned and hesitated when she saw John standing behind her, the log in hand.

“Thought you might be needing this.”

“Oh, thank you, Doctor Watson.” She took the log and handed it to Lestrade. “There you go, Greg.”

“Thanks, Molly.” Lestrade took it from Hooper and looked at John as he added the information on the newest victim he’d brought to the morgue. “You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think you’d believe me, Inspector.” John cleared his throat. Holmes had mentioned someone named Lestrade, was this him? He seemed to remember seeing that on his name-strip the other night at the pub. John hadn’t been paying attention to much that night, more focused on the fact that he was being arrested, but he had paid attention to the man putting him in handcuffs. This had to be Lestrade, there couldn’t possibly be that many people in London with such an unusual name, could there?

“Well, I think that’ll do it, Molls. Sorry about the extra work.” Lestrade lifted the biro to double-check what he’d written already and nodded.

“Don’t apologize, it keeps my job interesting!” Hooper waved off the apologies and took the log back, looking over the new entry, “Besides, I know I can rely on you to do _your_ job properly.”

“Wouldn’t know that the way Sherlock goes on about us, would you?” Lestrade ruffled his hair, slightly annoyed.

“He doesn’t really mean it, Greg.”

“Could’ve fooled _me_!” Lestrade huffed, “I’m _not_ an idiot, wouldn’t have gotten this far in my job if I didn’t know what’s what.”

“It’s not excusing him, but he _is_ a Holmes,” John said, folding his arms across his chest. Lestrade looked at him again and brown eyes narrowed a bit. Was that interest? 

“So, who’s your handsome friend, Molls?” Handsome? John didn’t particularly think so, but he was flattered.

“Oh, right.” Hooper seemed to realize that John and Lestrade had never been properly introduced. “Um, Greg Lestrade, John Watson.”

“You’re not one of Sherlock’s people, are you?”

“Oh, god, I _hope_ not.”

“Mm. Mycroft’s then?”

“Um. Yeah. Sort of? Well, I … _used_ to be.”

“Used to be?”

“Mhm.”

“Dismissed?”

“No. Retired.”

“Oh, lucky you.” An eyebrow went up at that. Not many people in John’s particular line of work got to retire like this, quiet-like and still living.

“What’s your name? Sorry, I know Molly just said, but ... ”

“John Watson.” He didn’t have any problem giving the Inspector his name again.

“Were you at The Peaky Blinder three nights ago by any chance?” There it was.

“Yes, I was.”

“Oh, I remember you.” Lestrade chuckled, “Keeping out of trouble these days, are you?”

“I’m certainly trying to, Inspector. I’ll try not to get into any more of it.”

“Well, if you do, I’ll be there getting you out of it again, I guess.”

“You have better things to do than keep a retired veteran out of jail, Inspector.”

“Not really. And you don’t give me any trouble.”

“Try not to.” John smiled innocently. “I’ll see you around, then?”

“Yeah, absolutely! And uh, just call me Greg.”

“John.”

“Nice to formally meet you, John.”

“You, too. Sorry about the other night.” John apologized as they shook hands.

“Nah, you were no trouble at all compared to some of the others. And definitely not compared to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Which is interesting, considering what I know about Mycroft and Q,” John said with a shrug.

“You know … uh, how do you know Q?”

“Bit of a story, that one.” He smirked.

“Well, you kind of _owe_ me a story after the other night, are you … busy this afternoon?”

“Nope.” John shook his head quickly, “What about you?”

“I’m not supposed to be on for the next call, so can I interest you in a drink?”

“I’ll pay first round?”

“I like you, Watson.” Greg chuckled, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “Thanks, Molly, see you later?”

“Absolutely. Nice to see you again, Greg.” Hooper smiled as they headed for the door together. “Bye, Doctor Watson!”

“Goodbye, Doctor Hooper. Good luck with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, I can handle him, don’t worry about me!”

“Bye, Mike.” John looked at his puzzled friend, who had witnessed the whole bizarre experience. “Thanks for everything.”

“Yeah, no, uh, no problem. Good luck?”

“I don’t need luck, Mike.” He said as he followed Lestrade out of the Morgue. “Everyone else in London, though? Yeah, they might need some.” Lestrade snorted as he held the door for John. What did he think he knew about John, they’d only met once before this.

“What?” John gave the tall, silver-haired detective a long look as soon as they were both out.

“Mycroft was right about you, John. D’you think M misses you?”

“Oh, Christ. Unlikely!” John rolled his eyes. “Like Hell he misses me, I’ve only been gone for a week! If you know _anything_ about me, you know I was more trouble than I was worth on a _good_ day.”

“You and the other two?”

“Do I want to know how _you_ know James Bond? Or Alec Trevelyan, for that matter.”

“I know Mycroft Holmes.”

“Good enough. So, where to?”

“The Windsor Castle?”

“Sure.” John honestly didn’t care where they went. Greg did the driving, and they were looking for parking twenty minutes later along Francis Street. Finding an empty spot, Greg took it for himself. John paid for the parking and they went into the pub. It was remarkably busy for a Thursday night, but that made sense.

 

John and Greg only waited a short while to get a table and John ordered the first round as promised. Once the drinks came, they sat and drank in companionable quiet.

“So, if you don’t me poking around, what’s your story?” Lestrade asked after a while.

“Hmm?” John looked up.

“How do you know Mycroft? Or even Q, for that matter?”

“I guess I owe you a story, don’t I?” John chuckled and twisted the half-empty glass between his hands. “Um, well, I’ve known Mycroft _probably_ half of our lifetimes.”

“How did you _meet_?”

“How does anyone meet Mycroft Holmes?”

“I can think of a few ways. I doubt yours had anything to do with Sherlock.”

“No, actually.” He smirked. “It’s a bit less ... glamorous than that.”

“What’s a bit less glamorous than arresting Sherlock Holmes for loitering and public nuisance and Big Brother shows up out of nowhere to “fix” everything and make your life a living hell?”

“Try Big Brother showing up out of nowhere on a military base in Southern Afghanistan with a chip on his shoulder that makes the Titanic’s iceberg look tiny and a dislike for the working-class masses risking our fucking necks twenty-four-seven to keep the likes of his ungrateful poncy arse safe.”

“Ooh. That’s rough.” Lestrade made a face, “Bless you.”

“And then having to _save_ his ungrateful poncy arse when the caravan is ambushed by a bunch of opportunistic Al Qaida lackeys and dragging him out of harm’s way before going back for your own guys.”

“Jesus Christ, Watson.”

“Oh, it gets worse.” John took a sip of his beer. “I spent three weeks searching thousands of square miles of open desert between Lashkar Gah and Sulgara, crossing the Hindu Kush mountains in the process, and broke into a mountain base _swarming_ with Al Qaida just to make sure this insufferable government prick didn’t end up on CNN or BBC World getting himself beheaded or shot.”

“Okay, you win.” Lestrade downed the rest of his drink, his expression grim. “Jesus, I had no idea that was you.”

“No one does, I did all of that against orders. Nearly got myself booted for it, too, but Mycroft’s superiors stepped in on my behalf. I don’t know who said what, but whatever they said scared my commanders straight and I didn’t have any trouble. Got off easy for what I did, knew it, too.”

“No kidding! Oh my god, Watson.” Lestrade set his empty glass down on the table and stared at it for a minute. “And, um, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For ... going after him against orders, risking yourself like that to get him out.” The other man messed with something on his left hand, avoiding eye-contact. “If you hadn’t ... I mean, that was ages ago by now, I know, but if you hadn’t ... ”

“If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be married to that insufferable government prick.” John knew what had been left unsaid and smiled a bit. “You’re welcome, Greg.”

“Another round?”

“Sure.” He knew Lestrade was trying to change the subject, knew why, and let him. Another round was promptly ordered, Lestrade paid for this one. The conversation moved on from how John and Mycroft had met to how Lestrade and Mycroft had met, which was a far more entertaining story.

“Wait, so ... let me get this straight.” John held up one hand as he managed to swallow a mouthful of beer before he choked on it. “You’re a DS, just a kid practically as far as the force is concerned, and you get a call one night, so off you go to drag a body out of the Thames because somebody spotted a floater and the River Police got called out to see what’s on, and as you’re standing over this bloated corpse that’s been in the water for Hell knows how long, this kid who’s clearly off his tits on who knows what shows up and starts talking big?”

“Yep.”

“So, you ... uh, you put this kid in irons and stash him in the back of somebody’s car while you try to find a point of contact because he won’t stop carrying on about how you’re going after the wrong person and instead of the apparent suspect, it’s _obviously_ somebody else and it’s right in front of you, why can’t you see it?”

“Something like that.”

“Jesus. How old was he?”

“Sherlock?” Oh, Christ, I think he was ... seventeen? Eighteen? Absolutely brilliant, he just ... he just ... ”

“Thinks the rest of us are wasting precious oxygen and resources.”

“Not as bad as he used to be, he kind of grew up a little bit after the whole mess with Moriarty.”

“That would make anyone do a bit of soul-searching.” John shook his head and lifted his glass, “Too bad it took such a maniac to bring Sherlock Holmes to his senses.”

“Hah.” Lestrade snorted around a mouthful of beer. “If you think for one fucking minute that experience brought Sherlock to his senses, have I got a reality check for you!”

“Wishful thinking?”

“Yeah. Real wishful thinking.” Lestrade’s glass hit the table with a thud. “Though, in all fairness, last year sort of did the trick.”

“Hmm?”

“You know Mycroft, and you know about Q?”

“Yeah. Q was actually my Quartermaster from 2012 to this year.”

“Oh.”

“It’s more than just knowing about Q. We’re practically family.”

“I bet. Well, how much do you know about the, um, “East Wind Incident”?”

“Eurus?” John narrowed his eyes. “I know enough. Probably more than you do.”

“I can believe that.” Lestrade sighed.

“I’m the one who made bloody well certain that bitch will never touch that family again.”

“I wish I believed you, John, but I know how that woman operates. How long her reach really is. No prison on Earth is enough to hold her for long.”

“What makes you think she’s locked up in a prison cell?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Because that’s where she is. I _told_ Mycroft letting her live was a bad idea, no matter how “harmless” she was, how inhibited she was. How secure her cell was.” It was clear there was no love lost between Lestrade and his late sister-in-law, but it was also clear that he had no idea that Eurus Holmes was dead and had been since just shortly after the East Wind Incident. John finished his beer and set the empty glass down carefully.

“Are you done with that?” He asked quietly, indicating the glass in Lestrade’s hand.

“Yeah.” Lestrade gulped down what was left in the glass and put it down. “Why?”

“I want you to see something. If you can’t drive, we can get a cab.”

“Where are we going? And why wouldn’t I be capable of driving?”

“We’ve both had two pints and the last thing I need is either of us getting pulled by one of your lot for driving drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Give me your keys.” John held out one hand as he got up after collecting his coat. He had his phone in his other hand as he tapped out a message to Mycroft with a specific request.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure neither of us gets into trouble.” He sent off the text and waited for a reply before he pocketed both his phone and the keys he ended up prying out of Lestrade’s hand.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I texted Mycroft to have someone come and get your car, they can drive it home for you, and we get a free ride wherever we need to go tonight.”

“Oh.” That didn’t seem to surprise Lestrade much, and John wondered if the DI was actually used to this kind of thing as they went outside to wait and get some fresh air.

 

Ten minutes later, a black government car pulled up outside the pub and two people got out, the driver and Mycroft’s long-time aide A. John gave A the keys to Lestrade’s car as the driver held the door for them.

“You know what to do with those, A.”

“Routine, Captain.” A took the keys with a smile. “What’s on for the rest of the evening?”

“Business at Richmond Cemetery.”

“Well, you know the drill.” A gave him a steady, sympathetic look. “Good luck, Captain.”

“Mm. Not me who needs luck, A.” John just grinned at her after stealing a kiss that made her squeal.

“Echo!” She protested, sputtering, “That’s not on!”

“Love you, A!” John said cheerfully, blowing her a kiss that almost got him decked for the cheek.

“Echo, you bastard! You aren’t getting away with this!”

“Oh, but I already have, my love!” John winked as he ducked into the car. Mycroft was trying and failing to hide his amusement as they got underway.

“You really shouldn’t tease her like that, 008. One day she’ll force delivery on those promises.”

“Oh, she knows I’m good for it.” He said casually, as if it was no matter he had just flirted with a woman who could not only kill him and make it look like an accident but make sure they never found a body in the first place.

“How did he get away with that?” Greg asked in an awed tone.

“Without getting a gun pointed at my head or elsewhere more delicate?” John tapped his knuckles against the cool reinforced glass of the window. “I’m the one who picked and trained Annalise Mackenzie from a pool of MI6 agents. She had the qualities I was looking for.”

“You?” Greg clearly didn’t believe him. “But you were still in the Army, why would MI6 care what you had to say about a body-guard?”

“They generally start to care when you go out of your way to rescue one of their top-level field agents, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Not that I had any idea at the time.” John looked at Mycroft, who just smiled. “All I knew was that the pompous government lackey had gotten himself captured on my watch and it was going to be a _very_ cold day in Hell before I let Al Qaida get away with anything untoward.”

“That’s a hell of a thing.” Greg whistled softly.

 

The drive from Westminster to Richmond was quiet, and when they reached the cemetery, they only stopped when they reached a particular section of the cemetery itself after a brief stop at the gates to speak with the groundskeepers.

“So, where are we?” The DI asked as they got out of the car, John going first, quickly sliding past Mycroft before he could even set foot on the path.

“Richmond and East Sheen Cemetery. Come on, it's this way.” He waited for the other two to join him. The driver stayed by the car as John, Mycroft, and Greg walked to a nearby plot. John looked around, despite knowing damn well there was next to no danger here. And even if that changed, he and Greg could probably handle it no problem. Not that Mycroft was unable to defend himself should he come under attack. John waited with Mycroft at a polite distance while Greg studied the grave-marker. The headstone had no proper name, just an initial and a surname and dates: E. Holmes 1 April 1981-17 April 2015. After a few minutes of tense silence, he turned and looked at them, his expression just this side of unreadable.

“Does Sherlock know?” He asked in a low, brisk tone.

“Probably not, and I don’t think it would make any difference if he did,” John said quietly, hands behind his back. “I promise you, she really is dead.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m the one who pulled the trigger on her. And I made sure she saw my face before she died so she would know exactly who had done the deed.”

“Anthea calls you Echo, you know her real name, and Myc keeps calling you 008.” Greg looked at him carefully, “Who exactly are you, John Watson?”

“One of the most dangerous men in London and absolutely no one you need to worry about.” He rocked on his heels, “I can take care of myself, Inspector, don’t let my looks fool you.”

“Were you ... ” He trailed off, “I mean, I know you ... um. You knew Bond and Trevelyan, and you said Q was your, uh, Quartermaster.”

“Correct.”

“I thought only Double-Ohs worked that closely with Q-Branch.”

“We do. Well, did.” John looked at Mycroft. “I guess I never actually got around to the rest of my story, did I?”

“Not quite.” Greg shook his head, “Well, I guess I really do owe you one! Or two.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s nothing I minded doing.” John put his hands in his coat-pockets and shrugged as they all three looked at Eurus Holmes’s grave-marker.

 

The quiet was only broken by the sound of Greg’s phone going off and John did not miss the air of resignation with which Greg answered the incoming call. Crime never took a day off, and even though he wasn’t on for the next case, they were calling him in. After hanging up with whoever had called him, Greg pocketed his phone and looked at Mycroft.

“I am _so_ sorry, Myc, I know I ... ”

“I know what you promised, but we both know that duty must come before family when necessary. Do what you can and I’ll see you at home. Where can I take you?”

“Um, Gabriel’s Wharf? Someone called in a floater or something like that, I think.”

“Do you think you’ll be needing Sherlock?” An eyebrow went up in question as they walked back to the car.

“Won’t know until I see what we’re up against.” Greg shook his head, ruffling his hair with one hand. “Kind of depends on how long the body’s been in the water and what kind of damage we’re looking at. Molly’s going to hate me, I already dumped another one on her earlier.”

“She’s not going to mind at all, Greg,” John said, holding the door for Greg and Mycroft.

“Oh, you met Molly Hooper today?” Mycroft asked, his interest not quite subtle.

“You can thank poor Mike Stamford for that one,” John remembered their conversation two days ago, Mycroft suggesting he pay a visit to Mike Stamford and get a look around Saint Bart’s.

“Where did you encounter Doctor Stamford, then?” He would be damned if Mycroft wasn’t smiling.

“We met at The Criterion this afternoon. We visited Saint Bart’s after talking for a bit and a round of drinks.” He said. “I got to meet Doctor Hooper, she’s quite lovely.”

“And that’s how you met Gregory?”

“Well, that’s how I met him formally.” John looked at Greg, who gave him a look. “What? I didn’t cause any trouble once you had me cuffed, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. To your credit.” Greg smirked. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stick around at Gabriel’s Wharf, could I?”

“Well, I’m no detective, and I’m better at killing people than I am at telling you what actually killed them, but I know a few things.” John looked out the window.

 

Thirty minutes later, they reached a barricade of cars and tape. The place was swarming with blue-and-white lights, marked and unmarked cars alike, uniformed personnel, and a familiar sense of urgency. But there was something about the way the personnel milled about at their tasks that struck John as ineffective as he followed Mycroft and Greg, not missing how no one really seemed to question Mycroft’s presence on the active if poorly-run crime-scene. They were met at a secondary line by a woman in a skirt suit and heels, she might have been pretty if that was John’s thing. But her attitude was a turn-off, and it was clear she had very little self-respect where it actually mattered.

“Donovan, I’m not even supposed to _be_ here, so there had better be a damn good reason for this.”

“Dimmock’s kid has the flu, apparently.”

“Not again.” Greg ran one hand through his hair in a gesture of clear frustration.

“Take it up with him, sir. I’m just the messenger.” Donovan said bluntly.

“Where are we, Donovan?” Greg asked in a professional, almost formal tone of voice.

“Down there, sir. Anderson has all the details.”

“Does he, though?” Greg raised an eyebrow in challenge. John couldn’t imagine they were hiring completely incompetent people, but something told him that Anderson, whoever that was, wasn’t among the best of them.

“What about them, sir? You know the rules.” Donovan shot John and Mycroft a suspicious look. John just looked right back until she averted her gaze first.

“The rules don’t actually say what you think they do, Donovan. But if it makes any difference to you, they’re my informants today.”

“I was just curious.”

“Like hell you are,” Greg muttered, looking down at the group of personnel gathered on the beachhead below. Most of the activity seemed to be focused down there. The tide was out, so there was plenty of room to work without getting anywhere near the water, but even John knew that this kind of work would almost guarantee wet shoes, damp socks, and stained trouser-cuffs. And the Tyvek PPE suits worn by the Forensic Specialists would be precious little protection.

“Well, come on, you two.” Greg had clearly made his mind up about something and headed down the narrow ladder-steps.

“I think I’ll stay up here, Gregory. I’d prefer to stay a bit drier if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine, Myc.” Greg looked up as he offered John a hand. “You really don’t need to stick around, I can get a ride back to the office.”

“I’ll stay. I have nothing demanding my attention at the moment.”

“Well, just ... make sure your car isn’t the first thing Sherlock’s going to see when he finally does show himself.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Gregory, I can be subtle when the situation calls for it.” Mycroft just smiled and waited until they were both safely on the wet sand before he disappeared.

“What makes you think Sherlock’s going to show up here?” John asked as they caught up with one of the Specialists, he reminded John a bit of a ferret.

“He usually does, if I call him.”

“Do you think we _need_ an outside opinion, sir?” The man, outfitted in blue, asked, having overheard that bit of conversation.

“Yes, I do.” Greg stepped past him, clearly brushing him aside. “Besides, I know you don’t mind Sherlock nearly as much as you used to.”

“It’s not that, sir, I just don’t think we need him every time we get a case.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Anderson.”

“Yes, sir.” Anderson backed off, apparently knowing this wasn’t a fight to pick right this minute. John followed Greg to a body that had clearly been in the water for a while, taking the pair of offered nitrile gloves. At first glance, he’d say two weeks in the water. Bloating and decomp was pretty advanced and there were very few recognizable features.

“What do you think of it, John?” Greg asked after a few minutes.

“Two weeks in the water, I’d look for any missing person reports filed under a victim with shoulder-length red hair and grey eyes.”

“How do you know what colour the victim’s eyes are?”

“Because I looked.” He carefully pried the victim’s eyes open.

“What else are we up against?”

“Female, mid-twenties. But the facial features are a bit ... strong.” John narrowed his eyes and did a manual inspection, carefully running his hands along the victim’s body, paying particular attention to the groin.

“What is it, John?” Greg asked when he hesitated upon an unusual but not unexpected find.

“Not female. Well, not primary.” He leaned back on his heels. “Trans, couldn’t say which way, but I wouldn’t be surprised at all if that was the cause for the murder.”

“Um, who’s this, sir?” Anderson asked curiously, staring at John in what might have been awe.

“Philip Anderson, John Watson. Doctor Watson is my consultant and my informant, Anderson. Be nice to him.”

“Well, he knows what he’s talking about, and ... he’s not rude about it?”

“Being rude doesn’t make people like you very much I’m afraid, Mr Anderson,” John said, getting carefully to his feet.

“Oh, here, Doctor Watson. Allow me.” Anderson reached out and gave him a hand up.

“Ah. Thank you, Mr Anderson.” John smiled at the Specialist, rethinking his initial impression of the man.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Nothing to worry you, just an old injury causing a bit of trouble. Happens to the best of us.”

“And, um, you were one, weren’t you, sir?”

“When I was much younger.”

“Thank you, sir. I knew a lot of good people in the Army, good friends of mine, a selfless lot all of them. Smart, selfless, braver than I’ll ever be.”

“So did I, Anderson.”

“What were you, then?”

“RAMC, attached to the Marines for a while, and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for the rest.”

“But you know ... um, what you’re looking at?” Anderson gestured at the body on the muddy beach.

“Saw plenty of dead bodies in my day, son.” John smiled a bit. “I was responsible for a few of those bodies, of course, but I know what’s what.”

“Because I sure as hell _don’t_ , and as much as I get on with Sherlock Holmes, I really don’t want to deal with his ... ” Anderson trailed off.

“Attitude?”

“That’s a nice word for it!”

“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I do know this was a hate crime, probably an intimate one which points to either family or significant other as a suspect.”

“What makes it a hate crime?”

“The victim is transsexual, though I’m not certain which way they were transitioning to or from, and I know of plenty of folks who take that kind of thing as a crime of its own, even a sin. I don’t personally believe that. And I would never, ever kill someone because they identified one way or another or had certain genitalia or didn’t.”

“So, that kind of narrows the field of suspects a bit, doesn’t it?”

“I’d go looking at family first, focus on siblings or parents if either is surviving, maybe even grandparents. It might have been a partner, as well.”

“Married?”

“Unlikely, no band on the left ring-finger where a ring _might_ have been.” He tilted his head, “Of course, don’t take _my_ word for it, I didn’t really get a good look at the hands and I’m not sure there would be evidence of a ring-band after all this time in the water anyway.”

“Well, that’s easy.” Anderson dropped to his knees and picked up the left hand, inspecting the fourth finger carefully. After a close examination, he looked up at John, shaking his head. “Probably engaged, but I couldn’t say if the ring was lost, removed by force, returned out of spite by the victim, or away for cleaning at the time the victim was killed. The band is so faded and the bloating has taken its toll, too.”

“See? I’m not an idiot, but I didn’t see that. You, however, did see it.”

“It’s my job to pay close attention, but you’re the one who thought about a ring-band. Honestly, Doctor Watson, I’m not sure that would have occurred to me.” Anderson shrugged, “So, that eliminates an angry spouse.”

“But not family or significant other.” John sighed, “I do not envy you the effort it’s going to take to find those people.”

“That’s not Anderson’s job, that’s Lestrade’s job. When he can be bothered to _do_ his job properly.”

“Oh, look who it is.” Anderson looked past John, who had already turned around at the sound of a familiar voice. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Anderson.”

“Did we miss anything?”

“You always miss something. It’s inevitable.” Sherlock Holmes, who had been God knows where since John had seen him at Saint Bart’s, ignored everyone else as he circled the body like a vulture, scolding them for being too loud when they were barely speaking above a whisper, and then began firing off a series of deductions almost faster than John could follow. Then, just as abruptly, he turned on his heel and prepared to disappear again.

“So, that’s just it, then?” John asked, bringing the young man to a halt.

“That’s just what?” Sherlock turned to look at him, almost surprised that someone had stopped him, that someone had the _gall_ to stop him. To question him.

“You think you can just show up here uninvited, talk a mile a minute faster than the rest of us can process a single thought, berate us for “missing what’s right in front of us”, “plain as the nose on your face” you say, solve the whole fucking case, and then go off again without so much as a “by your leave”?”

“I’m quite busy at the moment, but I knew Graham would need my help. He does so hate asking for it, so I quite often have to expend the effort when I have much better things to do.” Sherlock shrugged it off. “And the whole lot of them are all idiots. Morons, actually. Wouldn’t know a cause of death if it came up and slapped them in the face.”

“Philip Anderson is no moron, and you _know_ that. And for the love of Christ, his name is Greg! Greg Lestrade! And if I’m not much mistaken, he’s your fucking brother-in-law! Show a little respect, Sherlock Holmes!”

“Why? No one here respects _me_ , do they?”

“It’s a bloody two-way street, son,” John said carefully, his voice dangerously calm. “But I suppose you do as you bloody well please, don’t you? Always have, always will. Get yourself killed in some filthy back-alley in Islington and who’s going to miss you?”

“Plenty of people will miss me. Though, I couldn’t say the same for you.” Sherlock gave him a once-over. “Who are you, anyway? One of my brother’s stupid lackeys, no doubt. I _thought_ I saw his car on the street, I knew he couldn’t possibly keep his big fat nose out of business that’s certainly not his.”

“Wrong, and wrong again. He’s here because he offered Greg and I a ride to wherever it is we happened to be going.” John folded his hands behind his back, studying the cocky, irritating young detective. “And before you get any ideas, I met Greg at Saint Bart’s. He’s a better man than you deserve to have as family.”

“Oh, wait a minute!” Sherlock snickered, “Hold it! I remember you! You’re Mike Stamford’s little friend, aren’t you? Not much to look at, are you?”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, warning Sherlock before he got sense knocked into him. John just raised an eyebrow and looked around. Most of the personnel on the beachhead had either disappeared and retreated to a safe distance, it was just John, Sherlock, Greg, and Anderson right now. And a dead body.

“Son, I was stitching up wounded soldiers in Kandahar while you were causing mischief and running away from home as a lad of six. I was toppling regimes and small-time tyrants while you were wasting your time and money on drugs in uni.” John squared his stance and stood almost chest-to-chest with Sherlock.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Sherlock,” Greg repeated his warning.

“I spent three _weeks_ crossing hostile open desert and mountains, against orders, to save a man’s life because I felt a responsibility to make sure he didn’t get sent home in boxes. Or just one, a small box, if Al Qaida was feeling particularly cruel and spiteful.” He said evenly.

“Why should I care about some no-name who probably didn’t deserve being rescued in the first place? One less idiot to worry about.”

“Is that really what you think happened out there? That I risked my life, my _career_ to go after some nobody?”

“It makes no difference to me if it was the Prime Minister. I really. Don’t. Care.”

“No, but perhaps you should be grateful.” John’s eyes narrowed, and anyone who knew him would know that it was not a good sign. “And I’m not your brother’s lackey, I’m his _equal_.”

“How could someone like you _possibly_ be equal in any way to Mycroft Holmes?”

“Intelligence is not a man’s only virtue, Mr Holmes. If it makes any difference to you, I might have taken my orders from your brother but do not ever make the mistake of thinking me a throw-away lackey.”

“Then what are you?”

“The man who risked his life to save your brother’s in 2001.”

“Why would I be grateful? Why would I _care?_ I can’t stand my brother.”

“Is he always like this?” John looked at Greg and Anderson.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shook his head. “Even Q has better manners!”

“How would _you_ know my brother?” Mention of Q got Sherlock’s attention. John had kind of suspected it might.

“He was my Quartermaster, Mr Holmes.” John pinned the haughty young man with a dangerous gaze.

“Quartermasters are only assigned to Double-Oh Agents.”

“Do not let my appearance fool you, Mr Holmes, I’ve _killed_ men for less than the behaviour I’ve seen from you today. I am not the sort of person to insult, to underestimate. I will take great pleasure in proving you wrong, violently if I must.” He smoothed a wrinkle out of his coat sleeve and looked up to make deliberate eye-contact again. “A little respect where due, Mr Holmes, will take you far in life.”

“I ... understand. My apologies, sir.” He would be damned if the kid didn’t _look_ sorry, too. “Good night, Captain Watson.”

“Mr Holmes. Do be careful getting home tonight, there are plenty of people in London who won’t be quite as understanding as a retired Double-Oh if you give them that kind of attitude.” He gave a brisk nod and looked at Greg, who just nodded. He really didn’t need Greg’s permission to leave anyway, but it was nice to let the man know that his bit here was done with.

“I’ll get your statements later, John. Should I go through Mycroft?”

“I think that would probably be best, I’m in transition housing-wise at the moment.”

“No problem. I’ll, um, see you later, I guess.”

“Probably before you want to see me, Inspector. Have a good night.” John smiled and climbed the ladder, clearing the line at the top with a nod to the Constable now manning it as he made his way back towards the road. Getting a taxi would be a bit of a trick, but he wasn’t up to bothering Mycroft again. But of course Mycroft wasn’t going to let him get away with that, so when he saw the waiting car, the driver standing by the open door, he just got in. He didn’t even have to tell them where to go, which was nice.

“This isn’t a problem, is it?”

“No, I can send the car back for Gregory if he requires it. I suspect I’ll be retrieving him from the office at this rate, which is unfortunate.” Mycroft looked at him, “I am sorry about Sherlock, I should have warned you.”

“It’s fine, Mycroft. I think I can handle your little brother.” He just looked out the window and contemplated his future. John wasn’t sure what he would do with his time, but he suspected he would never be quite bored. Especially if any of the Holmes brothers were involved, which they undoubtedly would be, in some way or other.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used a combination of the original dialogue from A Study in Scarlet and the dialogue in A Study in Pink from Ariane Devere's transcribed screenplays of the BBC series. None of this would be possible without Doyle or Ariane. At the very least, it would be a great deal more difficult without Ariane's efforts!


	5. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson finally meets Sherlock Holmes, and it's the beginning of something beautiful. If Sherlock can just behave himself for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit more the way of classic ACD canon here, and the way John and Sherlock meet is a bit different. Quite a bit different.  
> ::  
> Part 2 of 2

* * *

* * *

When they got back to his, John thanked Mycroft for the ride and waited until the car was out of sight before he made his next move. He had never opened the door, opting instead to wait. He didn’t know why he waited, or where he thought he was going at this hour, but John had the feeling it might not be a bad idea to do some walking. After double-checking his side-arm for readiness, he zipped up his coat and set off into the night by himself, hands in his pockets. No one bothered him, of course, and he traversed the city streets with little trouble.

“If I was Sherlock Holmes, where would I go?” He muttered to himself as he stood on a street corner in Picadilly Circus. He wasn’t sure why, but something told him to head east. He didn’t know what was waiting for him, but John knew better than to question a hunch like that. He’d spent most of his adult life surviving on such things, after all. So, east he went, away from the lights and chaos of Piccadilly towards ... well, more chaos and more lights, just slightly less of both.

 

Once he reached Leicester Square, he stopped again and looked around. This time of night, the place was fairly buzzing. Street-musicians were performing for tips, people flowed past in crowds and clusters, laughing and chatting, going about their lives. But there was an energy here that had the fine hairs on John’s body standing up. Trouble. He could _smell_ it, taste it in the back of his throat, metallic and dangerous. It was exciting.  Time to go hunting, then. So, John found a good place to sit that was out of the way of foot-traffic and got comfortable. He could be here for a while.

 

As it turned out, John was waiting no more than thirty minutes before he spotted a familiar figure in the crowds. Of course, it _was_ hard to miss Sherlock Holmes. The young detective didn’t seem to have spotted him, but John wasn’t exactly standing out in the crowds tonight. He wore nondescript clothes and had his head down. To anyone else, it looked like he was minding his own business, busy on his phone. He wore a pair of ear-buds to add to the illusion, but he was absolutely paying attention. So when Sherlock paused nearby to him, looking at something on his phone, John lifted his head to study the young man. What was he doing down here? At nine o’clock on a Wednesday night? Sherlock never turned his way, so he wasn’t sure he’d been noticed, but John didn’t move an inch until Sherlock had moved on. Just before he disappeared from sight, John moved. It didn’t take long to catch up with him, though he was thrown twice and got completely turned around once.

“God damn it, Sherlock!” he muttered, looking around. He’d lost the man on Suffolk Place and had to double-back. Retracing his steps, he managed to pick up the trail on Haymarket and broke into a run. Taking a sharp right onto Orange Street, he cut left again at Oxendon Street and skidded. The street was packed with people and he cursed under his breath. Of course, this was the after-theatre crowd. Then, over by the entrance to the parking garage directly across from the theatre, John spotted a familiar tall figure going inside.

“Right. Go-time.” He muttered and crossed the street. Getting into the parking garage was simple, and he followed Sherlock carefully. He was far enough behind that by the time he caught _up_ with the man, it was to find him in a bit of trouble. Typical. He wasn’t sure why that didn’t surprise him, but finding Sherlock at gunpoint was not that unexpected. He wasn’t sure what the occasion was, what Sherlock had said or done to earn that, but John wasn’t about to let anyone harm the young man. It didn’t look like a drug-buy, but John honestly didn’t know what he was walking into. Not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“So much for a boring night.” He murmured, coming up behind the man with a gun pointed at Sherlock Holmes unnoticed by either man.

“Mr Lachey, I really could care less about your criminal past,” Sherlock said with a casual shrug. “Unless you really _did_ kill your ex-wife and your daughter, in which case.”

“You’re a bleeding _cop_! I don’t think I believe you!” The man spat, John saw a tremor in the hand holding the pistol. “I’m not letting you walk away, Holmes, you’ll go rat on me!” John could see now that the gun was a Colt 1911A1, poorly maintained, but he didn’t trust the man’s trigger discipline, or that the pistol would actually jam if fired. The model was built to be reliable no matter what you did to it, but sometimes ... well, John wasn’t taking that chance.

“I don’t live by quite the same code of rules that you do, Mr Lachey. And really, it’s in your best interest to not detain me against my will or threaten my life further.” Sherlock hadn’t looked away from the man in front of him once, but John raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t made himself known to them, he’d been pretty subtle about following Sherlock from Leicester Square to this garage, but that didn’t mean Sherlock hadn’t noticed him.

“Oh? And why’s  _that_ , Mr Holmes?” Lachey snarled, cocking the hammer back. John reacted in a heartbeat and put the muzzle of his gun to the back of Lachey’s head, making damn sure the man  _felt_ the contact.

“Mr Lachey, if you wouldn’t mind stepping away from my young friend.” He said calmly, that dangerous tone of voice that meant deep trouble. “I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying. I doubt he appreciates your blustering.” Sherlock remembered it from earlier going by the expression on his face, John saw the brief twitch of facial muscles and smirked. Oh, he remembered all right, he’d been the one in trouble the last time John had used that tone of voice.

“Impeccable timing, Captain Watson.”

“I happened to be in the area.” He looked past Lachey to Sherlock. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

 “Good.” He nodded and felt a shift in the man in front of him, and moved with him. “Oh, no you don’t. Put down your gun, Mr Lachey, or we’re going to have some serious trouble here.”

“That’s not fair. There’s two of you!”

“There’s  _always_  two of us. I would suggest you try not to make the same mistake again.” He thought about that for a minute and made a face Lachey didn’t see. “Well, you won’t get a chance to make the same mistake again, unfortunately. It’s prison for you.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“My name is not important, my willingness to pull the trigger before you can blink again, however.” He said. “Down, Lachey. Right now.”

 

For a minute he thought Lachey would do as told, but John wasn’t terribly surprised when he instead swung around on him. There was a struggle and John fought to get the gun away from Lachey. He lost his gun in the tussle, but John managed to get the upper hand and recovered his Glock when Sherlock skidded it across the concrete to him while he was on his knees. Fingers tight around the grip of his gun, he lunged to his feet and swept the Colt out of the suspect’s hand. It clattered against the concrete behind them and he put Lachey into a headlock as he pressed the muzzle of his gun to the man's temple.

“I said. Put. The fucking. Gun. Down!” He huffed, his voice steady despite everything they’d just been through. Predictably, Lachey went absolutely still.

“On your knees, Lachey. Hands behind your head.” This time, Lachey went down on his knees, hands kept where John could see they remained empty.

 “Are you alright, John?” Sherlock asked in a soft voice.

“I’m fine.” He raised his head, “You?”

“I’m ... well ... ”

“It’s okay.” John smiled, “You had a gun pointed at your head a minute ago and then the moron went psycho, you’re allowed to be not fine.”

“Okay.” Sherlock seemed almost confused. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” He glanced at their suspect, then back at the young man he had just rescued from worse than a few bruises. “I don’t suppose you might have anything as useful as a pair of handcuffs on you, would you?”

“I do, actually. I, er, borrowed them from Lestrade.”

“You “borrowed” your brother-in-law’s handcuffs, sure,” John smirked and took the offered pair of bracelets, wasting no time putting them around Lachey’s wrists. “Speaking of, you _might_ want to call him. He’ll be interested in this one.”

“Already have.” Sherlock waved his phone at him. John just nodded and they waited for the police to arrive once they had Lachey immobilized.

He could see Sherlock’s fingers twitching, but it wasn’t a tremor, it was a nervous tic. John chuckled and dug a slightly-crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. After checking to make sure that the pack wasn’t empty, he gave a soft whistle and got Sherlock’s attention. When the young detective looked at him, he gestured with the pack in question. Already dilated eyes got wider and he just smiled as he tossed the pack to Sherlock, who caught the pack, flipped it open with a practised flick of his thumb, and extracted two cigarettes.

“You don't mind smoking, I hope?” Sherlock asked as he returned the carton, one cigarette tucked carefully behind his right ear.

“Not if you don’t,” He removed one for himself and stuffed the carton back into his pocket.

“That's good enough. I thought I should ask before assuming, despite the ready offer.” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Who said anything about flatmates?”

“ _I_ did. Told Mike Stamford just this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.” That got a smile of sorts out of Sherlock, who accepted the offer of the lighter and John touched the flame to the end of the cigarette now between his shapely lips. “Then he comes back with an old friend, clearly just out from government service, and prior military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ... said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious. And while we were at Gabriel’s Wharf, you mentioned stitching up soldiers in Kandahar when I was a lad of six.” He paused to take a draw of his cigarette. “Were you any good?”

“ _Very_  good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Mmm, yes.” He’d been the cause of more than a few of those, if that was anyone’s business.

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime.” John wrinkled his nose and leaned his head back to blow a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Far too much.”

“And your face is tanned, so you’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. At least not recently. But why would you leave the Army? Not because you did anything wrong, so … honourable discharge?”  Sherlock was more or less talking to himself, and John let him talk. “How would a soldier get that kind of discharge? Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Afghanistan was my last deployment with the Army.”

“But that was several years ago, you would have been discharged in 2009?”

“2008. I spent most of 2009 in the hospital.”

“Mm, I was close.” Sherlock nodded and turned away from John. “And you’ve a history with Intelligence, you must’ve, knowing my brothers like you do. MI6, you said?”

“Yep.”

“And you were a Double-Oh?”

“It was decent work.” He shrugged. Maybe not respectable work, but it kept him busy. “What else?”

“I know you’ve got a brother, but you’re not on speaking terms with him. Your decision or his?”

“Mutual. More his than mine, to be honest.” It wasn’t so much that John and Harry weren’t on speaking terms anymore, it was _why_ they hadn’t spoken in four years.

“Well, that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

“Not by a bloody long shot! Try again!” John snorted and rolled his eyes, carefully flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “You, don’t even think about moving.” This was to Lachey, who grunted and twitched under John’s weight.

“Well, as for me I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. There is usually some manner of human body parts involved.” Sherlock studied the concrete between his shoes. John could only imagine what he was looking at. “Would that annoy you?” 

“By no means. As long as you’re smart about it.” John shook his head. “No leaving things about where they don’t belong.”

“Let me see — what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just leave me be and I’ll be right in a while.”

“Right.” He was curious to know what that entailed. Sherlock struck him as the sort to do just that very thing regardless of his precise mood, and he suspected it might happen a bit more frequently when he was on a strop.

“What about you, then?”

“I have a half-blind cat, she’s no bother though, minds her own business but puts herself quite firmly in mine.” John said, “And I object to unnecessary noise, I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours if I sleep at all, and I despise being idle for too long. I don’t like being bored.”

“Do you include violin-playing as unnecessary noise?” Sherlock asked, almost anxious.

“It depends on the player, I don’t mind the violin played well,” John answered. “Early-morning see-saw sessions, on the other hand, are a different matter. Pull that trick and I’ll drug your coffee.”

“I thought that was my job.” Sherlock smirked and looked at him, “Anything else I need to know about you?”

“I have another set of vices, but those are the principal ones I can think of at the moment.” John just shrugged.

 

The Met arrived about twenty minutes after they put Christopher Lachey in handcuffs. By that time, John was sitting on their suspect’s back, quite effectively pinning him to the concrete. Lachey had made a break for it, but John had wasted no time taking him to ground. His knees objected to extended periods of kneeling these days, but sitting was no problem. Lachey struggled at the sound of sirens and John calmly tapped the back of the man’s skull with his pistol to make him lay still.

“Now, now, Mr Lachey. None of that nonsense.” He said cheerfully. “Don’t want to add resisting arrest to your records now do we?” All that got him was a whine. It hadn’t taken long for Lachey to realize just how much trouble he’d gotten himself into picking on Sherlock Holmes. Not that Sherlock was by any means unable to defend himself, but he certainly hadn’t objected to John stepping in on his behalf. Two cars appeared and blocked in the stalls where they had taken Lachey to ground. One of them was Greg’s silver car, John recognized it from earlier.

“What do you want to bet this isn’t going to surprise Greg at all?”

“Oh, it won’t. He’ll act like it’s a shock, but he really is used to this sort of business.” Sherlock looked up from his phone as Greg emerged from the BMW and got a good look at their situation.

“Oh, this should be a good story.” He chuckled. “You boys alright?”

“We’re fine, Lestrade. We’ve got a suspect for you, though.”

“I can see that!” Greg came over to where John sat on Lachey. “Need a hand there, Doctor Watson?”

“Ta.” He took the offered hand and heaved himself to his feet. A pair of constables hustled Lachey to his feet and got him bundled into the back of the marked squad-car after making sure he didn’t need an ambulance.

“So, who’s our subdued mister, then?” Greg asked, glancing at the other car for a minute as he flipped his notebook open.

“That is Christopher Lachey. He’s Bexany Ranger’s father.”

“Bexany Ranger?”

“Our Gabriel’s Wharf victim, Greg.” John offered, “It’s exactly what I thought it was.”

“Christ, you’re good! You didn’t even know their name!”

“I don’t need to know their name, all I need to know is that they were wronged by someone they trusted and because of that they were dead.” He shrugged, rubbing his left shoulder. “I saw more sexual and gender-biased crime in the Middle East than I want to remember, so I knew what I was looking at when I saw Ranger’s body.”

“That’s awful.”

“People are awful.” Sherlock piped in, “Also, they’re all idiots.”

“Not all of them.”

“Most of them are, don’t look at me like that.” He waved a dismissive hand at John, who just rolled his eyes. “You’re smart enough for me, Watson, don’t look so insulted.”

“Oh, gee, thanks for that.” He snorted and tossed his spent cigarette, stubbing it out with his shoe.

“Alright, you two, that’s enough. I’ll pull you boys in later, I guess, or get your reports from Mycroft.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked surprised that they weren’t being dragged back to The Met right away.

“Really really. I’ve got enough on my plate with this case, I can wait a bit to get your statements. Just don’t forget, Sherlock.”

“Don’t worry, Greg, I won’t let him.” John promised, “I don’t suppose your husband made an appearance, did he?”

“You can go check, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.”

“Nosy bastard can’t be bothered to mind his own fucking business,” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh, stop it, Sherlock. He doesn’t do it to annoy you.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m fairly certain he doesn’t do it _solely_ to annoy you.” John amended. Sherlock snorted but said nothing else as they headed back the way they’d come in. Sure enough, they saw Mycroft’s car idling along the kerb.

 

The after-theatre crowd had disappeared for the most part, which was fine considering the place was lit up in washes of white and blue because of the police vehicles. A different crowd had gathered, held behind barriers to keep them out until the scene was shut down. As soon as John and Sherlock appeared, the driver hopped out and held the door of the car for them.

“Mr Holmes. Captain Watson.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Sherlock said politely. “Home, please.”

“Of course, sir.” The driver gave them a smile and closed the door once John was in. It was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Mycroft was not in the car, but that didn’t mean much. He could be anywhere in London, either at home or at one of his offices. It didn’t matter either way to John and less than that to Sherlock.

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock said after a while, not really looking up from his phone. What was he _looking_ at so intently? He’d been doing that for what seemed like hours now.

“Yeah, where are we going?” It wasn’t the only question going through John’s head, but it was certainly one of the more important ones.

“221B Baker Street, to mine. You need a new place to live, we both need a flat-mate. Next?”

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d say private detective ... ”

“But?”

“ ... but the police don’t go to private detectives.” At least not as often as people might think. If they ever did. Private detectives were a class of their own.

“I’m a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?” And how was it any different from a private detective?

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

“Well, we’ve already covered your service in the Army and in MI6, established your status as a retired Double-Oh. Which is to be commended, very few people can say they’ve outlived their own life-expectancy like that.” Sherlock looked sidelong at him. “Then there’s your brother.”

“Hmm?”

“I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?”

“Your phone. It’s expensive, a smartphone, but you’re not a man of complicated taste – you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.”John gave him his phone when he held out one hand for it, curious to know what Sherlock could tell him about the phone without ever having seen it or handled it before today.

“Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins.” He turned it over and looked at it as he talked. “The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving,” John said quietly. On the back of the phone were the following engraved words:  
  
**Harry Watson**  
**From Clara**  
**xxx**  
  
“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is.” Sherlock said as he inspected the personalized engraving. “Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him quite a while ago – this model was only six months old at the time she would have given it to him, but it’s four years old by now. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’d just given it away. If she’d left _him_ , he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_ : that says he wanted you to stay in touch.”  

“You could say that.”

“But didn’t stay in touch with your brother: that says you had problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don’t_ like his drinking.”

“How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” Sherlock smiled at him, “Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.” He handed the phone back to John. “There you go, you see – you were right.”

“ _I_ was right?” John stared at him, “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” He looked out of the side window of the cab, biting his lip nervously while he awaited John’s reaction.

“That ... was amazing.” He finally said. Sherlock looked round at him, apparently so surprised that he couldn’t even reply for the next four seconds.

“Do you think so?”

“Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” And really, it was quite amazing to hear someone lay that out for him.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!”He smiled briefly at John, who grinned and turned away to look out of the window.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes of quiet.

“Harry and me didn’t get on, never really did,” John said without looking at the young detective next to him. “Clara and Harry split up in 2009 and got a divorce in 2010; and Harry was a drinker.”

“Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What did I miss?”

“Harry died three years ago, last immediate family I had that was still living.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes widened and his expression faltered. “John, I ... I didn’t know, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Harry was a terrible brother. Drank and gambled himself into debt and into a divorce, and then drank himself to death.” 

John looked out the window again as the taxi began to slow and manoeuvre out of traffic. “There was very little love lost between us when he died. I wasn’t even in the country.”

“Still. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine being alone like that, without family. I assume your parents are deceased?”

“No. My father died when I was quite young, but I don’t miss him any more than I miss my brother.” He shook his head as the driver announced their destination once the cab had come to a complete stop. “My mother is still alive, I haven’t been in touch lately.”

“Because of your job with MI6, I assume.” Sherlock got out of the cab and stood on the kerb while John paid the fare.

“Part of it.” He joined Sherlock on the pavement and looked around. “Oh. Nice part of town, bit expensive up here, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owed me a favour.” Sherlock said, indicating the black door adorned with gold numbers.

“What kind of favour?”

“A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.” Sherlock retrieved keys from a pocket and got the door open, “I was able to help out.”

“Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?” It wasn’t that John was confused by the idea, he just wanted to make sure he didn’t get it wrong.

“Oh no. I ensured it.” Sherlock smiled at him and held the door for him. “Come in.”

“Ta.” He followed the tall young man into the house. “Nice place, this.”

“It’s home enough.” Sherlock closed the door behind him with a bit more force than John thought was necessary, nearly slamming it. “Mrs Hudson!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s ten o’clock! Leave your poor landlady alone.” John scolded.

“Sherlock?” A voice reached them from further up the hallway. “Oh, where have you been all night, young man?”

“So sorry about the hour, Mrs Hudson, I was on a case,” Sherlock said, offering the woman who appeared from a doorway that must have led to the landlord’s flat a charming smile. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“No, dear. You’re alright, then? No trouble tonight?”

“I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” John muttered, shaking his head.

“No, Mrs Hudson. Nothing to worry you.”

“Hmm. Well, your brother’s people were in and out of here all afternoon, didn’t say a word to me. What are you up to?” Ah, there it was.

“I’m sorry if they caused any trouble, Mrs Hudson, my brother’s people can be a bit careless sometimes.” Sherlock looked at John, “But I think … well, you know how you’ve been on me about getting someone to share the rooms with me upstairs?”

“Of course I do! And I’ve been on it for years! Why?”

“I think I’ve found just the person to take rooms with me upstairs in 221B.”

“Oh, you have!” A bright smile split the woman’s face, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m so proud of you! It’s about bloody time, young man! So, then, who is he? When do I get to meet him?”

“Come upstairs with the papers, and tea if you don’t mind, Mrs Hudson? I’ll introduce you to him upstairs.”

“I’m not your housekeeper, young man!” She scolded as Sherlock headed upstairs, John right behind him.

“I’ll fix tea, don’t make her job any harder than it has to be,” John said quietly.

“Sherlock, am I going to need a pet agreement?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. He keeps a cat.”

“Oh, Kitty.” John sighed, looking over the railings at the patient old woman, “She hasn’t been a bother, has she, Mrs Hudson? If she has, I am so sorry.”

“Oh, don’t you dare apologize? Is she yours, then?”

“Yes, ma’am. Her name is Kitty.”

“Oh, she’s a dear little thing, kept me company all afternoon, spent most of it sleeping on my couch!”

“Sounds like Kitty.” John chuckled, “Usually she doesn’t owe to strangers very quickly, I wonder what Mrs Hudson did to win her over.”

“She has a way with animals,” Sherlock said as they reached the top of the stairs, waiting for John to catch up. The door of 221B was closed, but Sherlock opened it as John reached the landing. The flat itself was cluttered and messy, but it didn’t really bother John.

 

There were stacks of papers and files he recognized as case-files from The Met all over every flat surface in the place, bookshelves were crammed with books on nearly every scientific subject known to man, primarily forensics, psychology, anatomy, chemistry, pharmacology, and phytology. There were also books on history and sociology. And a stack of medical texts. Not much in the way of pleasure reading, it seemed, but Sherlock didn’t seem the sort to read for the hell of it. He was more likely to read the newspapers or one of his textbooks than a novel. But John saw signs of recent additions and went for a closer look at one shelf. Oh, no wonder. The medical texts were mostly _his_ , as were some of the volumes on psychology, anatomy, and pharmacology.

“Well, Mycroft certainly didn’t waste any time, did he?” John muttered, pulling down his worn-out copy of Frankenstein.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, distracted from shuffling the stacks on the coffee table.

“Your brother’s been quite a busy bee. Nearly all of my things have been moved in and unpacked.”

“Such as?”

“All of my books.”

“Sounds like my brother, alright.” Sherlock went back to what he was doing, “Nosy, interfering bastard. Useful, though.”

“Mm.” John looked for somewhere to sit and moved a stack of files from the faded red armchair. Putting his book down to hold his place, he looked for the kitchen.

“Right behind you through that sliding door.” Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him, but John suspected that didn’t matter.

“Ta. You’ve got a kettle in working order, I hope?”

“There’s two. The one with the warning labels is not for comestibles.”

“Roger that.” For some reason that made him smile. Going into the kitchen, he found it to be quite a mess. Well, Sherlock _had_ warned him about having experiments about. John had no idea what was what and left it all alone. The microscope looked like it had been “borrowed” from Saint Bart’s if the label on the base was any indicator. The chemistry sets were likewise borrowed, they had the same labels. It amused him that Sherlock had a habit of just taking whatever he wanted or needed, but it didn’t surprise him.

 

Locating the kettle without stickers, he set water to boil for tea and looked for his tea-box. Finding it in the uppers on a lower shelf, thankfully Mycroft knew John hated having to dig in high places for standard things like cups and plates, he pulled down the box and went back for a few mugs. He found his RAMC mug and set that aside for himself before pulling down a pair of matching white mugs. Miraculously, he also found biscuits. Mycroft’s people must have also done the shop, which he appreciated. Getting everything on a tray with a teabag apiece in each mug, he headed out to the sitting-room again. He wasn’t sure what had happened when Sherlock suddenly gave a yell.

“What happened, Sherlock?” He set the tray down carefully. “You alright?”

“You said you had a cat! Not a demon!”

“Oh, for … ” He trailed off into a chuckle at the sight of Sherlock holding Kitty at arm’s length, a look of disgust on his face. Kitty, likewise, wasn’t entirely pleased.

“What did she do?”

“She attacked me!”

“Okay, which leads me to my next question. What did _you_ do?” John took one cup and gave it to Sherlock. “I’ll trade you the teacup for the cat. She didn’t get you, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. But I thought you said she’s not a bother!”

“This is a new place to her and you’re a complete stranger. I can’t imagine what you did to startle her.” John sat down in the red chair, Kitty on his lap. “Did you accidentally step on her tail or sit on her?”

“I … accidentally sat on her,” Sherlock said as he sat down gingerly on the grey chair. “I didn’t know she was there, in my defence.”

“Oh, Kitty, you silly thing. Did you sit on the grey chair?” John chuckled and rubbed Kitty between the ears. “You don’t be like that with Sherlock, he’s our friend. He’s a good one, okay?” That got him a baleful glare, but her foul temper didn’t last very long as he found her favourite places to scratch.

“Ah, there you are.” He smiled and took a sip of tea after fixing it his preferred way. For this, he had to displace Kitty, who made a disgruntled noise as she hit the floor on all fours. Tail flicking in annoyance, she stalked across the room again towards the grey chair and John watched carefully as she sat on the floor by Sherlock’s feet and stared up at the tall young detective, who stared right back.

“Don’t you even think about it, you fuzzy little menace.” He muttered. Mrs Hudson came upstairs a few minutes later with a stack of papers for John, accepting the cup of tea he handed her in exchange.

“Those are for you, dear. Just sign them and get them back to me when you have the time.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He would look through the contracts tomorrow, but he did take the time to read and sign the pet agreement for Kitty. Who had apparently decided that Sherlock was worth a second chance and wound between his feet, making soft noises and occasionally lifting her front paws off the floor to rub against him. For a while, he ignored her, but as John knew she would, she didn’t much like that and eventually took matters into her own paws and got up on her back legs, front paws resting on Sherlock’s left knee. She looked right at him and made a loud noise to get his attention.

“Mrrn!”

“Oh, what, you crabby old thing?” Sherlock looked down at her, making direct eye contact. “You think you can just play cute and I’ll like you?”

“Rrmp.”

“Well, no, that’s not how it works around here. I _don’t_ like you.”

“In fairness, you did sit on her.”

“I didn’t know she was there!”

“That’s no excuse.” John just smirked.

“Oi! I do not want you, cat!” Sherlock said sharply as Kitty decided to insert herself into the situation and pulled herself onto his lap. “Ouch! Claws!”

“Oh, stop it, she’s fine.” John scolded, “And so are you.”

“Hmph. Poison your coffee for that.”

“No, you won’t!”

“Sherlock! Shame on you!” Mrs Hudson scolded. “Where are your manners, young man?”

“It’s fine, Mrs Hudson,” John promised as he finished signing the pet agreement and watched Kitty make herself at home on Sherlock’s lap.

“Hey! No! That’s _not_ yours!” He scolded, lifting his mug up and out of her range. “No, no! Cats don’t drink tea!”

“Mine does!” He smiled and took a sip of his tea as he found his marked page in Frankenstein. “Tea, water, wine, whatever I have in my cup, she wants some. She’s also a bit of a scavenger, so guard your plate carefully.”

“So much for not being much trouble!” Sherlock muttered, lowering his mug to take a sip. Of course, as John had known she would, Kitty had her head inside the cup the minute Sherlock had it lowered.

“Oi!”

“Told you!”

“Not on, Kitty. Not on.” Sherlock lifted her away by the scruff and gave her a look. “This is _mine_ , cat, and I’m not about to share with the likes of _you_.” Kitty did not take that threat seriously, of course, and just sniffed the mug as Sherlock took another sip.

“Sherlock, you _do_ realize she just … ”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, as long as you’re aware.”

“Well, boys, if you can behave yourselves, I’m off to bed!” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully, “Already taken my soothers, and I’ll have earplugs in, so don’t worry about me!”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, and John, dear, the upstairs bedroom’s been made up for you! I wasn’t sure if you boys would be needing two bedrooms or not.”

“Oh. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He wasn’t sure what made her think they _wouldn’t_ need two bedrooms, but it didn’t really matter. “Good night.”

“Good night, boys.” She went into the kitchen and left again quietly after rinsing out her cup and setting it on the proper shelf, closing the doors as she went. John looked up over the top of his book at Sherlock when it had been quiet for a while, and smiled when he caught his new flat-mate sitting in the grey chair across from him, but at an angle, legs tucked up and hanging over one arm of the chair, his back against the cushion and opposite arm, a case-file open on his lap and … well, wasn’t that a thing?

“That was quick.” He murmured, taking another sip of his tea.

“What’s that?” Sherlock didn’t really look up, instead reaching out with his free hand to give Kitty a scratch behind the left ear. He had a biro in that hand, tucked between two fingers, which he subsequently twirled almost carelessly. Another strange little habit of his? Setting down his cup, he used _that_ hand to give Kitty some attention while he scribbled something in the margins of the file open against his knees.

“I thought you didn’t _like_ Kitty.”

“I didn’t. But she’s a very persistent little thing.”

“Clearly.” John just smiled. Kitty had gone from sitting on Sherlock’s lap to occupying his whole upper body practically. She was stretched from waist to shoulder, curled up a bit, just like she did with John after a long absence. “Well, she clearly likes _you_ now.”

“I do believe I’ve been forgiven.”

“Yeah, I’ll say you’ve been forgiven. Good thing you’re not allergic, or we’d have a problem.”

“Never have been, and I love animals. More fond of dogs, but I have no problem with cats.” Oh, did that get her attention. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Princess. You’re just fine. I like you.” John just chuckled and got comfortable for some unwinding. It was late enough he could go to bed, and part of him really wanted to. So after finishing the current chapter he was on, he marked his place and set the book on the side table. Getting up, he collected his empty cup and retrieved Sherlock’s, taking them back to the kitchen to wash out for tomorrow.

“Off to bed for you, then, Captain?”

“Mm. I’ll see you in the morning, Sherlock. Do try not to blow up the kitchen while I’m asleep, will you?”

“I make no promises, but I will do my best.”

“Good enough.” He smiled and looked over his shoulder at the door. “Kitty will be happy to keep you company. Just don’t let her get into your experiments.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“And try to remember, she is _not_ for experimenting upon. She would be rather cross with you.”

“I imagine you might be, too. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” He pulled the door closed but left it open a bit and climbed the stairs to a bedroom on the second floor. It was small but cosy and more than adequate for his needs. He usually slept on a Single, he had a Double here at Baker Street, and that was just fine with him. It was a very nice bed, and large enough for John’s needs. The bedding was brand new and freshly laundered, the mattress likewise new and quite soft. Getting ready for bed, he paid a quick visit to the water-closet at the end of the hall and took care of business before turning in for the night.

 

With his window open just enough to let in a bit of breeze and the night-sounds of London, John fell asleep in a new bed in a new flat, and slept very well. He thought he heard something downstairs around two or three, but he couldn’t be arsed to go investigate. There were no explosions, the alarms didn’t go off, and there was no shouting. Just Sherlock up to whatever harmless nocturnal pursuits interested him, no doubt.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used a combination of the original dialogue from A Study in Scarlet and the dialogue in A Study in Pink from Ariane Devere's transcribed screenplays of the BBC series. None of this would be possible without Doyle or Ariane. At the very least, it would be a great deal more difficult without Ariane's efforts!
> 
> I also used some dialogue from The Abominable Bride in this chapter! Modified for my purposes, of course, but can I just say that TAB John Watson is a sassy bastard and I love him so dearly?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of domesticity for the Baker Street Boys. Things seem to be going rather well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get what they've wanted. A bit of sweet smut ahead!

* * *

* * *

After a surprisingly restful night’s sleep, John woke at his usual time and lay in bed for a minute longer before deciding he might as well start his day. He knew he had slept well just by the way he felt this morning, despite a few expected aches, and sat on the edge of the mattress, not missing how his feet didn’t quite reach the floor. It wasn’t that the bed was abnormally high, of course, John just happened to be a bit shorter than most men. It had never really bothered him, there were far bigger problems in the world, but he did take issue if someone made a point of bringing up his stature. Now, in his defence, living with someone so much taller than him was not a problem. He didn’t actually care about that, it didn’t _matter_. He would be just fine friends-only with the handsome young detective, but John would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t _very_ interested in a bit more than that. Not that he was going to jump that on Sherlock right out of the gate, of course, he wasn’t even sure where the man stood on romantic relationships.

 

Sighing, John leaned his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair, sitting still for a moment before he heaved himself off the bed. He made his way to the water-closet and took care of business before returning to the small bedroom that would be his until further notice. He had no intention of moving out of Baker Street, he rather liked the cluttered flat and it’s very unusual tenant, but it wasn’t for certain just how _long_ they would be requiring two bedrooms. He paced the span of the room once, window to wall, and decided to get the blood flowing a bit. Dropping to the floor, John braced himself up, palms flat against the worn grain of the hardwood, smoothed by time and full of tiny imperfections. He did twenty push-ups, twenty sit-ups, and then, feeling quite a bit more energised, decided a shower was in order.

 

Making his way downstairs with a towel and change of clothes over one arm, John found the primary flat empty but warm. Mrs Hudson must have been up at some point, a fire burned low in the hearth. The kitchen was as much a disaster as it had been last night, which kind of made him smile, but there was no sign of Sherlock and Kitty was suspiciously absent. A double-check of the sitting-room revealed Sherlock’s coat and scarf hanging by the door, and he found Kitty sleeping on the grey armchair.

“Traitor.” He muttered, giving his pet a ruffle. She made a soft noise and cracked an eye open to look at him before going right back to sleep.

“So what?” she seemed to say. He chuckled and looked around the sitting-room. The wall behind the couch was apparently a staging-area for paperwork pertaining to certain cases. It was a mess of photographs, print-outs, handwritten notes, newspaper articles, maps, and a web of string connecting everything, but it didn’t quite make sense to him on first glance.

“Well, I found Kitty, and Sherlock clearly isn’t out.” John said quietly, “He’s not in the kitchen, so ... ” A quick check found the bedroom empty, and he rolled his eyes. Shaking his head, John looked around.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” The non-verbal reply came from the bathroom and he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, there you are.” He pushed the door open. “What are you _doing_ in here?”

“Taking a bath. I heard you moving around quite a bit, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ... fine.” John blinked. Had he said he was taking a _bath_? “Uh, why do you ask?”

“You were making an awful lot of noise upstairs.”

“Oh. No, no, I’m fine. I was just ... trying to wake myself up a bit more.” John tried not to stare, really he did. The main bathroom suite was a full outfit with a double-sink, toilet, free-standing claw-foot bathtub, and separate shower stall. At the moment, the bathtub was occupied, and wakefulness was the least of John’s troubles this morning. Sherlock was sitting in the tub, water just to his chest, a bit of a snug fit because he was so bloody tall, and ... he was wearing a shower cap.

“Sorry, I ... didn’t mean to intrude.” He finally stammered, realizing he was openly staring and had been silent for far too long.

“You are _hardly_ intruding, John.” Sherlock waved a lazy hand, flicking water and soap-suds everywhere. “You obviously came with something in mind and I seem to have distracted you.” Those strange lapis eyes fixed on him as Sherlock turned to look at him properly, a slow, lazy turn of his head that looked almost too fluid to be natural. Distracted was putting it mildly! John was more than distracted, and it was mortifying!

“Uh. Well, n-not ... not exactly. I’m ... so sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this, I’ll just ... ” Christ, was he really acting like a flustered teenager?

“You don’t have to _leave_ , John, I don’t mind the company.” Sherlock’s smile was ... well, _lewd_ was almost too tame.

“But ... ”

“I’m _flattered_ by your interest, Captain Watson.”

“Oh.” Well, shit, there it was. John felt a flush creep up his neck and swallowed hard on a throat that suddenly seemed too dry. “But you’re not ... um.”

“Are you always this eloquent?”

“It’s _your_ fault, you bastard.” He muttered, face burning. “Completely your fault!”

“I would say I’m sorry, but that would be a lie. I do apologize for embarrassing you, however.”

“I just ... I didn’t think you ... ”

“You didn’t think I was interested?”

“No.” Christ, he sounded so weak.

“Captain, that is as much my fault as your own. Mine for not making myself more clear, yours for not reading the proper signals.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, reflective, and so. Fucking. Smooth. “Of course, last night was a bit ... exciting, and I can hardly blame you for mistaking attraction for adrenaline. I know you noticed. You saw, but you did not observe.”

“Bloody open book to you, aren’t I?”

“Oh, no! You’re a proper puzzle, John Watson, and I can’t wait to figure you out! You are one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, never mind that you used to work for or with or do whatever with my stupid older brother. How could you _stand_ him?”

“What?” John was a little confused by the sudden change of subject.

“Mycroft.”

“Oh. Well, to be honest, I didn’t really have much to do with him once I thought it might not be such a bad idea to take his too-good-to-refuse offer.”

“Hmm. Lucky you.” Iridescent blue eyes the colour of the sky at dawn right at the horizon just after the sun rose rolled and water splashed as Sherlock flicked two fingers in disdain.

“He’s really not _that_ bad, Sherlock. Really he’s not.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I wouldn’t be here if not for him.”

“And _he_ wouldn’t be here if not for _you_.” Sherlock pointed out, “You saved his life, he saved yours, you don’t owe him anything more.”

“I know.” He folded his arms, studying the lazy young man in the bathtub. “Are you just going to stay in there until you turn all wrinkly and the water’s gone completely cold?”

“Not at all.” Said with a sly smile and in a smooth motion, Sherlock rose to his feet, water cascading from his skin like rain. John stared. He couldn’t help it. It was the first proper look he got of Sherlock. Skinny, yes, but not skeletal, not unhealthy. Tall, with dark, curly hair, pale smooth skin, nearly fucking hairless for that matter! Lucky bastard.

 

John made some strangled noise and hated himself when Sherlock’s smile turned into a predatory smirk. Caught like a deer in the headlights. Fuck. He found himself face-to-collar bone with a very naked, very wet Sherlock in the time it took to blink. Everything he was holding hit the ground with a soft thump. The top of his head reached Sherlock’s jaw. A wetness on his cheek startled him out of his head and John refocused.

“ _Breathe_ , John. This isn’t going to hurt.” Sherlock said softly.

“Oh. Shit.” It wasn’t breathing anymore, it was something else. John shook his head and looked up. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

“You must think me some dirty old fool can’t keep his thoughts to himself.”

“No such thing.” Sherlock smiled and leaned in until they were practically touching. Before John could say another word, draw breath, he kissed him, right on the tip of the nose, and was gone out the door to the bedroom. John blinked in alarm and turned.

“Oi!” He barked.

“Yes, sir?” Sherlock reappeared with a shuffle, flushed and grinning like the boy he really was. John sized him up a second time and made a split-second decision he couldn’t quite regret. He closed the short distance between them and carefully put both hands on a narrow waist, fingers sliding against slick skin. The cocky bastard hadn’t even taken a towel. He chuckled and leaned up on tiptoe a bit to make contact. It wasn’t a perfect first kiss or even a really proper one, but it certainly did the trick.

“ _That_ is how you kiss a bloke.” He said, breath harsh against soft, shapely lips. He dropped back on his heels and smiled at Sherlock. “Now, off you pop! _I_ need a shower, so out you go!” Watching Sherlock stumble out of the bathroom in a daze was far more satisfying than it should have been, considering he’d done nothing more than kiss the man, but John would be lying if he didn’t admit that his heart was racing. He wore a bit of a shit-eating grin, but he had nothing to be ashamed of. Sherlock had started it this time, had initiated. He would ask before assuming more was wanted, and constant communication was ever so important, but he didn’t see the young man refusing him outright.

 

Running the water as hot as he could stand it, John took a brief shower. He didn’t want to waste any unnecessary time, so he didn’t linger. Already aroused from the brief workout earlier, his body had reacted with shameful predictability to the sight of his naked young flat-mate, but John still didn’t bother with more than a stroke or two. Finishing up with his shower, he dried off quickly with a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

“Sherlock?” He called out.

“Here.” Came the reply from the bedroom that had been empty earlier. John just smiled and slid open the frosted-glass door.

“Doors?” He asked of the smug young man sprawled on the bed.

“Barred. Had a word with Mrs H, no visitors until we say.” Sherlock tracked him with his eyes as he went to check the door, which had been duly locked.

“Good. What’s the time?”

“Just seven.”

“Mm.” He raised an eyebrow, “You bothered your landlady before eight in the morning? Sherlock Holmes, you scoundrel.”

“At least I didn’t shout down at her this time?”

“Perhaps.” John smirked, “So, what am I to do with you, boy? Hmm?”

“What would you like of me?”

“Well, I’m game for kissing, you’re rather good at that. Then perhaps we’ll see where it goes from there, shall we?”

“After you, Captain.” Sherlock just gave him a soft smile and held out one hand in invitation. John wasted no time tossing aside his towel and kneeling on the mattress of the massive King bed Sherlock had. Plenty of room to spare, that was nice. No danger of falling off the bed during sex or sleep. Sherlock sat up and they sat quietly, studying each other for a moment. John wasn’t ashamed of any of his scars, though he did have quite a few of them from his service with the Army and then with MI6. Sherlock had some scars of his own from who knew what, cases and experiments gone awry if he had to guess, childhood scrapes and scuffles, and a constellation of pinprick scars on his arms were evidence of an old, long-standing addiction. He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock must have been into, but it didn’t matter. That was the past, and the scars were all quite old. There were others, in disturbingly familiar places, and John pressed his thumb to a silvered slash, long since healed, on his wrist. It had been quite deep, almost too deep, and he wondered when it had ever been so unbearable for Sherlock that he was driven to these extremes.

“John?”

“Don’t ever, _ever_ think this is the only choice you have, Sherlock.” He said softly, bending to kiss the scar. “Never.”

“Then you must never again think that your gun is the only choice _you_ have.” Sherlock’s voice was just as soft, but his intent just as clear. John didn’t say anything, the message was obvious and understood. The young detective’s focus shifted and settled at last on the faded starburst scar on John’s shoulder. Sherlock would know, by touch and deduction alone, which parts of the scar were from the bullet that had torn through his shoulder and left a hole in more than just his chest, and which was from the numerous surgeries in the days and months that followed.

“I could have lost you.” Sherlock murmured, fingers tracing the lines of John’s most prominent scar, and John let him. “And I never would have known better. This must have been ... the most excruciating thing to happen to you.”

“Honestly, I didn’t know right away that I’d even been _shot_.” John caught Sherlock’s hand in his. “If you can believe it.”

“How could you _miss_ being shot like this?!”

“Because I was moving when they hit me, and when I initially felt the impact, I just thought a piece of brass had fallen under my armour and gotten caught*.” He shrugged, feeling the stretch and give of healed scar-tissue. “It wasn’t until I’d managed to call for help and gotten my men to safety that someone else noticed.”

“Why hadn’t they before?” Sherlock asked, going behind to examine the entry-wound.

“I was wearing a red vest under my uniform, most of the medics did, and it wasn’t really obvious under the shirt and two more layers of clothing and an armour vest that I was actively and profusely bleeding.”

“What changed?”

“I took my vest off in the ambulance and my nurse saw the blood on my uniform.” He shook his head, thinking of Bill Murray and how shocked the man had been as John explained himself while Bill stripped him to the waist and got busy stemming the bleeding and packing the wound, trying to keep him from bleeding out before they got to base. It had been a close one, and they’d taken him straight to surgery to stop the bleeding and remove any shrapnel in his shoulder. That had been the beginning of the end and the following year had been absolutely fucking miserable. Then Mycroft Holmes had found him, and the rest was happy history.

“You ... ” Sherlock sat cross-legged in front of him as he finished that bit of the story. “John Watson, you are the luckiest men in the world. How the hell did you not know you’d been shot!”

“I told you, I was moving and I just thought I’d been hit by a piece of brass when they hit me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“That’s what Bill Murray said, too.”

“Well, you are. But you’re not just an idiot. You’re _my_ idiot now.”

“There’s a difference?”

“No one else gets to call you an idiot. No matter what. You can’t go off and get yourself into trouble without me, ever.”

“Mm, I think I’m supposed to be the one saying that to you, but I see your point.” He reached up and touched the slightly dishevelled curls, a bit damp from the earlier bath, soft to touch and careful handling. Sherlock smiled and leaned into the touch, leaning towards John.

“Enough talk, I’d rather fill our time with more interesting things.”

“Such as?”

“Kissing?”

“Mm, I seem to remember suggesting just that very thing and then we got distracted.” John chuckled, “My apologies.”

“Mine, too.” Sherlock tilted his head with that soft, boyish smile of his and John was struck by how truly young he was. Sixteen years wasn’t a terrible gap, but it showed in the smoothness of Sherlock’s skin, the babyish quality of his facial features. John knew he was old beyond use and had been put out to pasture by not one but two services. It was a bad way to be for a man of action like him. He got bored, and that generally led to him getting into trouble.

 

But before John could start to feel sorry for himself, Sherlock was on him. It happened faster than he was able to react, and John found himself flat on his back, pinned to the mattress by the lean, surprisingly muscular body of his attractive young flat-mate, who looked down at him with mussed hair and bright lapis eyes.

“John, stop that.”

“What?” He gasped, effectively startled.

“Stop, right this instant, stop it. Stop it.” Sherlock said roughly, fingers tightening on his wrists. “I know what you’re thinking, and you will stop that nonsense.”

“How did ... ”

“You are _not_ old beyond use, and if I ever hear you say that again, I will be quite cross with you.”

“But I am! Two different services said as much!”

“You. Are. Not. _Old_. And especially not beyond use!” Sherlock shook his head, curls trembling, eyes full of fire that did things to John. Naughty things. “I have plenty of use for you!”

“Well, no offence, son, but you can certainly do better than a scarred old war-dog like me. Looks like yours? You could have anyone and anything you wanted.”

“I don’t _want_ anything or anyone.” Sherlock said, his voice soft, “I want just you.”

“But why?”

“Because you’re handsome, you have skills I could have used years ago and would love to exploit now that I have access to them, and my brothers respect you. Love you, even.” Another head-tilt. “Mycroft respects so few people the way he clearly respects you, I’d love to know the exact details of that relationship. And Q adores you, he thinks you’re clever. Not quite savvy with technology, of course, but still one of the best men he knows.” John snorted. Not quite savvy with technology was putting it mildly.

“In my defence, I returned as much of my equipment intact as I reasonably could be expected to. And I always returned my weapons intact.”

“The most important equipment was always returned intact, John,” Sherlock said as he adjusted their positions. “I’ve come to appreciate the human element far more in the past few years, and I realize that being alone is not as ... desirable as I thought it once was.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, if you don’t mind, Captain, I’d really very much like to kiss you.” Now they were almost touching noses and John wasn’t sure when Sherlock had decided to lay on top of him, but he didn’t mind. “In fact, I’d love to kiss you.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“We keep getting distracted.”

“Mm, that is a problem, isn’t it?” John chuckled and tilted his head a bit. “Well, I am at your service, Mr Holmes.”

“Ugh. Mr Holmes is my _brother_!” That got a scoff and an eye-roll. “Please, just call me Sherlock.”

“You asked nicely.” He grinned, “But really, can we both just agree to never again mention your brother in the bedroom? Please?”

“I have no problem with that. Now, where were we?”

“I think we were discussing kissing.”

“Ah. Right you are.” That got a bit of a mischievous smile and Sherlock bumped noses with him. “Allow me to make good on my proposals.”

“Please ... do.” John sighed at the first touch of soft, slightly chapped lips. He loved kissing, adored it, it was a very enjoyable way to express and share affection with someone else, but he had to admit that Sherlock was new ground for him. Not his first male partner, not by a long shot, and it was clear Sherlock was a bit inexperienced but John found it endearing. And his enthusiasm more than made up for his naiveté.

 

John flexed and twisted his wrists, getting his left hand free, and reached up to touch. The noise Sherlock made when he ran his fingers through soft curls was adorable, and he smiled into the kiss. Not as easy as literature made it sound, but not impossible. That, of course, led to a break in the action and John took a deep breath.

“Wow,” Sherlock whispered, eyes wide and glazed over. “Is that what it’s like?”

“You’ve kissed someone before, haven’t you?”

“Oh, of course, but ... well, I had no time or need for intimate romantic relationships before now, and the people I consorted with when I was younger weren’t ... ”

“Not the sort you would have brought home to your parents?”

“Not at all.”

“Better off without them in your life, dear.” John smiled and stroked the lines of Sherlock’s face, discovering that his cheekbones were just as defined as they looked but far softer. He watched those marvellous eyes flutter at the soft touch and realized that Sherlock responded to intimacy far better than he’d expected of someone with his history. He wasn’t the first person to be gentle with him, but he was one of very few in Sherlock’s history to _be_ gentle at all.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” He whispered, a little awestruck at the unusual beauty of Sherlock Holmes. He was certainly not traditionally handsome or beautiful, but in his own extraordinary way. John had dated women who didn’t hold a candle to Sherlock, and men as well.

“Oh please.”

“To me, you’re beautiful.” John smiled and directed Sherlock down for another kiss. “Come here, you, before you start talking and forget to stop.” Getting both hands free, John took the chance to touch, to learn, being careful of scars he found on Sherlock’s back. Where had he gotten those? John knew without seeing them what they were, what had caused them, but couldn’t begin to imagine when Sherlock would have been in any position to _get_ them.

 

John focused on making Sherlock feel good, figuring out what could get him to make those adorable little noises. John traced the line of Sherlock’s spine, the familiar bumps and dips of each vertebra, and came to rest on the swell of his rather perfect, shapely arse.

“Oh, please.” Sherlock whispered, “ _Please_ , Captain?”

“You want to try?” He breathed, wondering if he’d heard correctly.

“Yes.” Sherlock pushed back and up on his elbows, making eye-contact. “I’m ... clean. I have been for quite some time. Please, John. I want this, I really do.”

“Well, if we’re doing this, we’re doing this properly.” John framed that unusual face with both hands, “I would love nothing more than to give you everything you want, but I want to do it properly. Safely.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have condoms and lube?”

“Yes, of course I do. Shall I get them?”

“Please.” He smiled and let Sherlock sit up and back on his knees, “And have you, erm, _prepared_ yourself?”

“I don’t have much use for toys, but that’s not the question you are asking. Yes, I have. As a matter of personal hygiene, I prefer to maintain myself that way.”

“That will make things easier.” John watched the tall man move around collecting things from different drawers. Not to mention _cleaner_. John had encountered one or two partners in his lifetime who either hadn’t known or hadn’t cared about the degree of preparation necessary for anal intercourse. Basic cleansing usually did the trick, a shower would more than suffice, and knowing what he did about Sherlock, John had no problem engaging with him.

 

They took turns through the bathroom and returned to the bed when they were ready. John took the time to thoroughly prepare Sherlock, knowing that as long as it had been for him it had been longer still for the young man. Watching Sherlock’s body react and respond to him was ... fascinating. He responded beautifully to careful handling, and when John knew he was ready, he pulled back and took the time to prepare himself. He was so hard already, but he would do everything he could to make this last, to make this good for Sherlock. As he fumbled the foil packet a bit, Sherlock smiled and took it from him.

“Allow me.” He murmured in that deep baritone, “Please, John.”

“Help yourself.” John let him, catching his breath when Sherlock kissed his fingertips before tearing the packet open very carefully using his teeth and shaking out the rolled bit of latex, which promptly disappeared between Sherlock’s teeth.

“W-what are you doing?” He blinked as Sherlock shimmied down until he was between John’s thighs and then bumped his forehead against John’s pelvis, nuzzling the soft skin under his belly-button. Sherlock had to adjust his position a bit, but he shot John a look a split second before taking hold of John’s erection with one hand.

“Shit!” He almost collapsed, and that was so embarrassing. Had it really been so long since someone had done this for him that he reacted so violently? Sherlock just chuckled and gave a gentle squeeze before going down on him, sliding the condom into place using careful teeth and suction to get everything just right. It took every bit of willpower John had to stay still, it was probably the most erotic thing John had ever experienced. And it wasn’t even foreplay! Was it? When Sherlock pulled back, he was beaming like a fool on Shrove Tuesday, his face as flushed as John’s was.

“What was _that_?” He gasped.

“Did you like it?”

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever done that for me.”

“Well, too bad for them. You have a very lovely cock, John Watson.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He just stared at Sherlock, he wasn’t sure anyone had ever said something like that to him before. Sherlock’s eyes were practically glowing as he leaned up to kiss him, tasting just a bit of latex.

“Also, the biggest by far I’ve ever seen, or taken.” He said, “I can’t wait to feel it inside me.” Well, shit. That was a first. John hoped to Christ the whimper wasn’t something Sherlock could actually hear.

“Are you ready?” He asked, making eye-contact with Sherlock.

“You made very sure I was ready for you.”

“I have to double-check. Your comfort is very important to me, tell me to stop if you need me to, alright?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock just smiled and trailed a hand up John’s arm as he got into position. John took Sherlock’s hand in his as he began to push, keeping track of the minute changes in the younger man’s responses, the way his facial expression and breathing changed, the way his body tensed or relaxed.

“Take your time.” He murmured during a pause to let Sherlock adjust, “Got all the time in the world.”

“Well, as much time as it takes before someone tries to interrupt us,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Who on earth would bother?”

“My brothers, my brothers-in-law, your old partners, take your pick.”

“I thought we had an agreement not to mention your brother ever again in the bedroom?”

“Oh, we did, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. And if they try to interrupt us, they’ll be very sorry for the trouble.” John leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. He knew he wasn’t the lad’s first, but certainly his first in a long while. But he had to admit that Sherlock was certainly one of his best. When Sherlock had relaxed and taken him completely, he gave him time to adjust.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, good, I thought you’d fallen asleep on me.”

“Oi.” He looked up at the cheeky young man, who was beaming at him.

“Well, it makes sense that an older man of your age might need to rest a bit.”

“Are you calling me _old_?” He narrowed his eyes.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to fuck me, old man, or do you need more time to get it up?” He would be damned if Sherlock didn’t wink at him. John just reached down, stroking along the pale, marred skin to Sherlock’s thin wrist. Moving carefully and quickly, he pulled out until just the head rested against the ring of muscle and took hold of the young man’s wrists, pinning them above his head.

“Who’s an “old man”, _boy_?” He looked down at his wide-eyed partner, “Say that again like you _mean_ it, you disrespectful little prick.”

“Old man.” Sherlock was teasing him, they both knew this, and John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I’ll teach you a bit of respect, boy.” He said gruffly as he shuffled a bit. “Put that tongue of yours to proper use.” Sherlock’s reaction was perfect, and John took great pleasure in the way his throat contracted on a reactive gulp, the shudder that sent a tremor from head to toe and caused goosebumps to rise on the fair skin. Before Sherlock could quite recover, he pushed home in one long, careful thrust, stopping only when he had bottomed out. Reaching down, he pulled Sherlock down a bit more and heard the soft grunt as the change of angle caused John’s erection to brush against Sherlock’s prostate. Inspired, John pulled back a bit and adjusted his own angle to apply regular pressure to that little gland.

“Call me old man again and I’ll teach you a lesson.” He huffed as they moved, small rocking motions to get things properly started, “Dare you.”

“Y-you’re ... ngh. Old man.” Sherlock gasped, arching under John, baring his throat. Oh, that was beautiful. Perfect.

“Disrespectful little brat.” He growled, bending his head to nip at the soft, pale skin. Sherlock just whined and John felt the sharp relief of fingernails digging into his shoulders. Thin, scarred fingers found their way into John’ hair and tightened.

He enjoyed seeing how Sherlock reacted to him, how he reacted to the way John did things in the bedroom. The soft moans and cries, the way he arched off the bed so much John could slide an arm around him and hold him up. The angry red tracks that were being scratched into John’s back and shoulders, marks he would wear with honour. The sloppy, off-centre kisses, the quiet reassurances and pleas for “more, more, please”, the dampness on Sherlock’s cheeks as they lay together after, recovering.

“Christ, you’re amazing.” He whispered. “So ... perfect. Christ.”

“I think ... you are the ... amazing one.” Sherlock turned his head and studied him, “I’ve never ... experienced something quite like that before. It was ... ”

“What?” John reached out and stroked a stray damp curl out of Sherlock’s face.

“My mind went _blank_ , John.”

“Well, that’s normal, sweetheart.” He studied the worn-out young man. “But you don’t like that, do you?”

“Not usually. I hate that.”

“But?”

“With you, it’s ... I don’t know why it was so different.” Sherlock looked at him, “You didn’t ... ”

“What?”

“You ... stayed, John. You didn’t ... berate me for ... enjoying myself.”

“Did someone else?” John frowned, not saying what was in his head: “Tell me their names and I will make them sorry for every word, every action they ever said or took against you.”

“In uni. A bloke named Sebastian Wilkes.” Sherlock sniffled a bit and tried to turn away from John, but he held him still.

“Sherlock, don’t. Whatever this Wilkes bloke did to you, it’s unforgivable. It’s _wrong_.”

“He’s into banking now, but not very good at it.” Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide and wet. “I wasn’t very ... popular in uni, John, I was ... too smart, too strange. I was The Freak, I always have been.”

“You are not a freak, Sherlock. You have an incredible brain, an intellect that puts any modern genius to fucking _shame_.” He rolled so he was facing Sherlock properly, “You see things the rest of us can’t or don’t, you _know_ things. That does not make you a freak.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. “You are not a freak, and anyone who calls you that will have me to deal with.”

“Really?”

“Really really.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. “Now, come on.”

“Where?”

“Breakfast. I’ll cook.”

“But I don’t ... ”

“You do, because I said so, and you’re far too skinny to do without. Now up.” He got out of bed and found his pyjamas from last night. “Shower first.”

“Must we?”

“We must. Come along!” he headed for the bathroom, knowing Sherlock would follow. They had both bathed prior, so it wasn’t a very long shower, just enough to clean up after their fun, and John headed into the kitchen to do something about breakfast after getting dressed. Sherlock complained the whole time about how he wasn’t hungry and weren’t there better things to do with their time and John rolled his eyes. Turning from the cook-top where he was busy with eggs and toast, he went to Sherlock’s chair and leaned over the back of it.

“Sherlock?”

“What!”

“Look at me?”

“Why?”

“Just look at me for a minute.” He waited for the petulant young detective to turn around and look at him, which he did eventually. John was ready when he finally turned his head and cut off his objection with a well-timed kiss.

“That’s more like it.” He smiled.

“That was sneaky, underhanded, and entirely unfair, Captain.”

“Never said I played fair, lad,” John said, ruffling damp curls as he turned back to the cook-top and finished up breakfast before plating. Setting one down at Sherlock’s place and one at his, he went back for tea.

“Now, eat up.”

“But I’m not _hungry_.”

“You burned quite a few calories earlier, you need to refuel.” He said as he set into his own breakfast, glancing over the papers. Sherlock grumbled but obeyed, John did not miss how he ate every single thing on his plate. So much for being not hungry. He smiled but said nothing.

 

After breakfast, John did the wash-up and left Sherlock to his business with an experiment.

“What’s it this morning, then, Sherlock?” He asked as he passed behind his perch.

“Frostbite and hypercapnia.”

“Ah.” He leaned over the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Abnormally elevated carbon dioxide levels in the blood. And you said frostbite?”

“Mm.”

“One of your cases or one of The Met’s?”

“One of The Met’s.”

“I suppose some poor soul was found dead with signs of frostbite and symptoms of hypercapnia.”

“But there was no sign of a weapon, I very quickly eliminated strangulation.”

“But not asphyxiation.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t suppose Doctor Hooper was in charge of the autopsy, was she?”

“Autopsy hasn’t been done yet. The case came in right before we found ourselves up against Mr Lachey last night.”

“Hmm. Well, if I can leave you alone for a few hours, I’ll go do some hunting.”

“Hunting?” That got him a curious look.

“You heard me. Stay out of trouble while I’m gone, will you?”

“Where are _you_ going?”

“Saint Bart’s.”

“Why?”

“To talk to Doctor Hooper and see if she can tell us anything.”

“Oh.” That seemed to surprise Sherlock and he just watched as John collected his coat and made sure he had everything he needed. Coat? Check. Keys? Check. Phone? Check. And, gun? Check.

“Oh, and one more thing before I take off.” He reached over and took the biro from Sherlock.

“Oi!”

“Oh, hush.” He wrote his phone-number down at the top of the page in the corner. “That’s my number, call me or text if you need anything. If you get a case or the likes.”

“Oh. Okay.” Sherlock looked kind of confused, adorably so. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few hours, max.” He ruffled Sherlock’s hair, he seemed to do a lot of that, and smiled, “You have my number, sweetheart, call for anything.”

“Well, I would say be careful, but that doesn’t seem quite right for a retired Double-Oh.” Sherlock tilted his head a bit. “But do take care of yourself, please.”

“I think I can handle London. Like I said, call or text if you need anything. I’ll have my phone on me.”

“Good luck, and be in touch.” The handsome young man he had taken rooms with just smiled a bit shyly and watched John disappear around the corner as he went out and down the stairs. He called out to Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs.

“Where are you off to at this hour, Doctor Watson?” His landlady poked her head out curiously.

“Sorry to disturb, Mrs Hudson, I’m just out for a few hours. Keep an eye on Sherlock for me?”

“I’ve been doing it this long, haven’t I?” She just gave him a look, “Just you take care of yourself, Doctor Watson. Have a good morning.”

“You too, Mrs Hudson. Be back later.” He waved and headed out the door. But no sooner had he set foot on the pavement than he was grabbed from behind and dragged backwards. He knew that hand and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had run down after him.

“John!”

“What?”

“I didn’t … you … you didn’t say goodbye.”

“How was I meant to say goodbye?”

“Well, I was … I mean, I was hoping you might … ” Sherlock looked almost ashamed of what he’d done, what he was asking for.

“You wanted a goodbye kiss?” John smiled up at the tall boffin, who just nodded. “Then come down here, I’m not going to kiss you while you’re way up there.”

“Really?”

“Come _here_ , you silly thing.” John stepped back from the door and waited for Sherlock to come down next to him. He did, and John looked up to make eye contact. “Ask me, Sherlock.”

“May I have a kiss before you leave?”

“Well, if I thought I could coax you out of the house to come _with_ me, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.” John smiled as he took Sherlock’s hand in his. “I’ll settle for a proper goodbye kiss, however.”

“Do you … _want_ me to come with you?” Sherlock seemed almost surprised that John was asking him to come along. “I mean, won’t I … get in the way? You’re going to be rather busy with Molly, I imagine, you don’t need _me_ there to make a nuisance of myself.”

“You have as much right to be there as I do, Sherlock.” He reached out and trailed the fingers of one hand along the lapel of Sherlock’s coat, “Not to mention, you’re quite dressed to go out.”

“I can come?”

“You can come.”

“Can I still have a kiss before we go?”

“Absolutely. And I think we’d better make sure we close Mrs Hudson’s door or she might have some cross words for us.”

“I did close it when I came out.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder and John checked for himself. Sure enough, the door was closed. He smiled and stepped as close to Sherlock as he could physically get.

“Well, then, I owe you a kiss. Come here, you.”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock leaned in a bit as John got up on tiptoe and they kissed. Just a quick thing, and it was with great reluctance that they parted. They did have things to do and places to go, after all.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * For anyone who's ever visited a firing-range and fired a gun, especially a rifle, you know EXACTLY what this feels like. It's not exactly a fun experience. For the uninitiated or gun-leery, getting hit with hot brass is very different than being shot, it's what happens when a discharged shell-casing hits someone in the vicinity of the fired weapon. Hot metal touches your skin, either unprotected or otherwise, and you just KNOW you got hit. I've gotten hit by brass once or twice, not very pleasant.


End file.
